


Harry Potter and the Baroness

by PallasAriadne (AriadneKurosaki)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco struggles, Drama & Romance, F/M, Gringotts Wizarding Bank, Harry Potter is Bad at Feelings, Harry Potter is Lord of Multiple Noble Houses, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Minor Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas, Not a Ron-basher, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Protective Minerva McGonagall, Tropes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 68,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28165713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AriadneKurosaki/pseuds/PallasAriadne
Summary: After the Department of Mysteries incident, Hermione struggles to recover from her injuries and Harry tries to reconcile his feelings of guilt – and other emotions – for his best friend. It's too bad that curses and Voldemort keep getting in the way. And why do they keep getting letters from Gringotts?
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter
Comments: 89
Kudos: 273





	1. Prelude: The Hospital Wing

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally posted on FFN and I'm migrating it over here. I do not own Harry Potter, nor do I own any other works, pop culture references, toys, or people who may appear in this story.
> 
> Some language in the prelude is taken from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.

Harry sat on the end of Ron’s bed in the hospital wing at Hogwarts and listened to Hermione read the _Daily Prophet_. She looked exhausted and pale, but Madam Pomfrey had assured him that she – that all of his friends – would make a full recovery. Luna, Ginny, and Neville had already been released from Madam Pomfrey’s care; only Ron and Hermione remained in hospital beds.

Even as he listened to her reading, Harry thought back to that horrible moment when Hermione had fallen to Antonin Dolohov’s curse; a flash of purple had struck her and she had simply fallen to the floor, unconscious. It had taken both him and Neville to try and drag her to safety... _Don’t let her be dead, don’t let her be dead, it’s my fault if she’s dead…_

_She’s still here in the hospital wing because of me. Ron is covered in welts because of me_ , Harry thought.

“They’re very complimentary about you now, Harry,” Hermione observed. She quoted the Prophet’s praises of Harry’s unwavering dedication to the truth in the face of slander – their slander – and then winced and placed a hand against her ribs. “This interview with you that they’re referencing isn’t even exclusive, it’s from the _Quibbler!_ ”

Luna murmured vaguely, “Yes, Daddy sold them the interview. We’ll be using the funds to go on an expedition to Sweden this summer and catch a Crumple-Horned Snorkack.”

While Hermione admirably stifled her first response and murmured her approval of Luna’s summer plans, Harry and Ginny exchanged a grin. Ron just looked at Luna with a puzzled, yet fond, expression.

The friends’ conversation turned to the Divination professor and Hermione shocked Harry by defending the idea that prophecies could be _real_. His palms began to sweat and his heart beat a tattoo in his chest; before he even knew what he was doing, Harry was getting up and making his excuses to Ron and Hermione: that he needed to visit Hagrid. He hadn’t yet told anyone else about the prophecy; he couldn’t, not yet.

Instead, he met Draco Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle in the entrance hall. The four house hourglasses stood to one side, and Gryffindor’s was woefully empty.

“You’re _dead_ , Potter,” Malfoy declared in low tones. His pointy face seemed even paler than usual.

Harry couldn’t resist rolling his eyes. “Funny, I don’t feel dead,” he retorted. Somehow, it loosened something in his chest to watch Malfoy’s expression turn even angrier.

“My father is in Azkaban because of you,” Draco hissed. “You can’t just put my father in Azkaban and expect to get away with it.”

Harry smirked. “I rather thought I had, actually.” He turned to leave, but Malfoy was drawing his wand, and Harry drew his still quicker. His lips were already forming the words of a hex when he heard Snape’s voice.

“Potter! What are you doing?” the Potions professor asked as he swooped into the entrance hall. Harry thought, in his half-hysterical mind-set, that the professor resembled nothing so much as an overgrown bat in his billowing black robes.

“I’m defending myself against Malfoy, _sir_ ,” Harry sneered.

Snape stared at Harry for a moment, and glanced toward the giant hourglasses. “Put that wand away, Potter. Ten points from…” He eyed the Gryffindor hourglass, which held only a single ruby. “I suppose I can’t take any points if there are none to take, can I?” he drawled.

“We’ll just have to add some more, then,” Professor McGonagall commented, as she reached the final step on the stairs into the castle. She leaned heavily on her walking stick, but Harry noted that she looked nearly fully recovered. She beckoned Crabbe and Goyle forward and handed her cloak and carpetbag to the pair, demanding that they carry her belongings to her office.

“Now then,” she said, “I think Potter and his friends ought to have fifty points apiece, since they have alerted the world to the return of You-Know-Who!” As McGonagall spoke, rubies began to fall into the bottom of the hourglass. “Fifty each for Potter, the two Weasleys, Longbottom, and Miss Granger. Oh – and fifty for Miss Lovegood, of course.” Blue sapphires sparkled as they fell into the hourglass for Ravenclaw.

“Well, off you go. We should all be outside on such a glorious day,” McGonagall declared. As she continued into the castle, her steps punctuated by the thump of the walking stick, Harry left the castle and walked across the lawns toward Hagrid’s cabin. He ignored the students around him – many sunbathed, seemingly carefree, and the resentment grew in his chest. At the last minute, he turned away from the cabin and headed for a spot beside the lake, one hidden by the shrubbery.

Harry sat for many hours, while the sun moved slowly across the sky. His face grew wet and distantly, as if it came from someone else, he heard low, choked-off sobs. It wasn’t until it was dark and the Scotland air had chilled significantly that he walked back inside, wiping his faces on his robes as he went.


	2. The Goblin's Letter

The end of term passed relatively uneventfully after that night, save for Umbridge’s rather undignified departure: even in his grief, Harry couldn’t help but laugh as Peeves, wielding McGonagall’s walking stick and a sock full of chalk, chased the pink-clad monster from the castle.

On the Hogwarts Express back to Kings Cross, Harry watched Hermione with barely-concealed worry. She and Ron had been released from the hospital wing just a few days before the end of term, but while Ron seemed completely cured, Hermione still looked unwell. She was wrapped in an overlarge cardigan and had seated herself in the corner of their compartment. Instead of reading, as was her usual habit, she dozed against the window with Crookshanks curled on her lap. Even when Harry told the story of how Dumbledore’s Army had turned Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle into giant slugs and stowed them in the train’s overhead racks, Hermione just smiled wanly and then laid her head against the window once more.

When Mad-Eye Moody, the Weasleys, Remus Lupin, and Tonks all showed up at Kings Cross, along with the Grangers, Harry was momentarily cheered. He exchanged hugs with Mrs Weasley before the Dursleys arrived – and it cheered him enormously to watch Mad-Eye Moody and Arthur Weasley threaten his uncle on his behalf.

Still, the concerned looks that the Grangers were giving Hermione caused something in his chest to tighten, and Harry looked back several times before he resolutely led Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley out of the station.

The drive from Kings Cross to Privet Drive was mostly silent, although Uncle Vernon muttered imprecations under his breath about “freaks”. Harry wasn’t paying much attention. Faced with the knowledge that he was stuck with the Dursleys and stuck without magic until the Weasleys could get him out, Harry slumped in the back seat and tried not to think about Sirius. It didn’t help that when they got to Privet Drive, Uncle Vernon practically threw Hedwig’s cage at him and hissed at him to go to his room and keep quiet.

Harry spent the first night of summer locked in his bedroom and surrounded by Dudley’s broken games and old toys. Apparently Dudley had decided that with Harry at school, the smallest bedroom at Privet Drive could serve as a trash heap once again.

It was an inauspicious start to the summer; Harry spent the evening clearing broken things off of his bed and nightstand. He had changed the bedsheets before leaving the house last summer, but they hadn’t been touched since then and the small bedroom smelled stale. He opened the windows to try and air the room out, and turned his attention to his trunk. He could just _hear_ Hermione admonishing him to start on the work they’d all been assigned over the summer. Thinking of her, though, made him think of the Department of Mysteries, of watching her fall, and of watching Sirius fall through the Veil, so he quickly unpacked to distract himself.

* * *

Harry spent the next week reading, which would have made Hermione proud. He also began to fix up, the muggle way, a few of the simpler toys that Dudley had broken and tossed into the bedroom over the last several months. There were toy guns that shot foam balls and plastic things that beat each other up; those were easy to fix and Harry couldn’t understand why Dudley even had them – they looked like toys for little kids, not something a fifteen year old would have. Still, the pile of broken things shrunk a little and no one was there to comment if Harry spilled tears about Sirius over the neon-coloured water gun that Dudley had apparently discarded after breaking the trigger.

Night time was a different story altogether. Harry slept fitfully at best; when he did sleep, he dreamed over and over again of that day in the Department of Mysteries. He watched, helplessly, as Hermione was struck by Dolohov’s curse; sometimes, in his dreams, the curse killed her. Sometimes he carried her body back to Hogwarts; sometimes he mourned over her still form while the battle raged on around him. He dreamt of Sirius as well, of the godfather he’d only just found falling through the Veil over and over again. As the nightmares continued, night after night, Harry relived the awful feeling of thinking that his best friend was dead. He relived the awful moment when he saw his godfather die.

_A flash of green flame shot through the air of the Department of Mysteries. As Bellatrix Lestrange cackled in the background, the sickly green spell struck Hermione in the chest and she flew back, her head bouncing off the hard floor with a sickening crunch. Harry hurried forward, dodging spell fire, and reached Hermione at the same time as Neville did._

_The two boys crouched over their friend, whose eyes were wide open. She lay crumpled on the ground where she fell, blood pooling around her head where it had hit the floor. Neville grabbed her wrist and felt for a pulse, but then shook his head at Harry. “She’s dead, Harry.”_

_Harry bent over Hermione, sobbing in his grief, when he heard the girl whisper in his ear: “It’s your fault, Harry. I wouldn’t be dead if you had listened to me.”_

Harry jolted up in bed and leaned forward, covering his face with his hands as he breathed deeply to try and calm his pounding heart.

The door to his bedroom creaked and shoved open; Uncle Vernon rushed in, his bulky frame jiggling and covered by what seemed like an acre of striped pyjama fabric. “Shut up, boy!” he shouted, teeth clenching around the words. “Stop your screaming _at once_! Don’t you know that good and decent people are trying to sleep?”

Harry lifted his head and squinted at Vernon in the darkness of the bedroom. He reached over to the scarred nightstand next to his bed and put his glasses on, which made Vernon’s blurred face resolve itself into a picture of anger. “I’m not doing it on purpose,” he retorted. “The nightmares…” His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears.

Vernon Dursley swelled up for a moment, and even in the dark room his cheeks grew visibly ruddy. “Hang your _nightmares_ from whatever those _freaks_ are teaching you! Unlike you, _I_ need to work in the morning. I can’t have you shouting and waking me up every night!”

Harry ran his fingers through his hair and squinted at Vernon again. “It’s not from what I’m being _taught._ My godfather…” he choked. “My godfather _died_.” _Hermione almost died. Ron almost died._

Vernon harrumphed even as Petunia and Dudley appeared to peek over his shoulder. “Your godfather?” Petunia asked. “Sirius Black is dead?”

Harry nodded miserably. For a moment he thought he heard a touch of sympathy in Aunt Petunia’s voice, but he was certain he’d imagined it as soon as Vernon started yelling again.

“I don’t care which one of those freaks died!” Vernon shouted. “S _top screaming_ and keeping us all up at night or I’ll lock you in the cupboard.” He looked a little frightened of the words as he said them, as though Tonks or Moody might hear him, but pushed past Petunia and Dudley to lurch, grumbling, back to his own bedroom. Dudley turned away as well, although he gave Harry a final look before he lumbered back to bed.

Petunia stood silently in the doorway. She seemed to struggle with herself for a moment, and Harry tried to hold in a laugh at the way she looked just then: her blonde hair in pink curlers, her flowery nightgown and robe wrapped around her like a cloak, and her horsey face looking as if she’d suddenly become a bit, well, constipated.

“Aunt Petunia?” he finally prompted, and his words broke into whatever thoughts had silenced the woman.

Petunia sighed heavily and pulled her robe around herself more tightly. “I didn’t like Sirius. He turned my hair blue once, because he thought I was stuck up,” she murmured, as if speaking to herself. She turned and began to close the door behind her, but looked back at Harry once more. “I’m sorry that he’s dead, Harry.” The door shut with a click, leaving Harry to stare at it with his mouth open.

Petunia had expressed sympathy? _To him?_ Harry shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair again, sending sweat from his forehead to soak into his black locks.

Finally, he took his glasses off and lay back down. He needed to figure out a way to stop the nightmares – if only so that he didn’t end up back in the cupboard. With a sigh, Harry closed his eyes and fell into a restless sleep filled with images of Aunt Petunia gardening with a head of perfectly curled, electric blue hair.

* * *

The next morning, Harry stumbled downstairs to make breakfast for his relatives, as he had done nearly every morning for years. At Petunia’s insistence, all three Dursleys – and therefore Harry, as well – were still on the diet that had led to Dudley losing much of his baby killer whale look over the last two years. It was far more effective on Dudley than it was on Vernon, who Harry surmised was sneaking extra snacks at work.

Harry poured a stream of egg whites from a carton into a non-stick frying pan and added a little salt and pepper. He pushed them around as they began to firm up from the heat of the pan, creating a pile of fluffy scrambled egg whites. Once the eggs were done and portioned onto plates, he sliced two grapefruits in half and placed three of the halves on the plates for the Dursleys. Beside each plate he placed a serrated grapefruit spoon and a fork.

When Vernon and Dudley pounded down the stairs and into the kitchen, each made a face at their meal, but sat down to eat. Harry just turned away and began to wash up the frying pan; Aunt Petunia had been very clear on the fact that Vernon and Dudley needed to follow the diet that the Smeltings nurse had prescribed.

Aunt Petunia walked downstairs more sedately, a moment later, and began to eat her grapefruit with a significantly more resigned expression than her husband and son. There hadn’t been enough egg whites in the carton for Harry to have any, not that he could stomach the sight of the gloppy stuff. It reminded him too much of a potions experiment gone wrong. He sat down with his half-grapefruit and began to stab his spoon into the fruit to loosen the segments from the rind and membrane.

Vernon and Dudley were done quickly, and Harry paused in eating his grapefruit to clear their plates away, as Aunt Petunia required of him. When Vernon and Dudley both left – Vernon for work and Dudley to join his “gang” – Harry and Petunia were left alone in the kitchen. Petunia looked at Harry and jerked her head at the pantry. “Make yourself some eggs and toast,” she ordered quietly.

Harry paused in the middle of rinsing a plate and stared at his aunt as if she’d asked him to perform magic in her kitchen. Petunia frowned. “I’ll be in the garden,” she said, and stood from the kitchen table. “Eat the rest of your grapefruit; don’t waste it.” Without a backward glance she swept from the kitchen, leaving Harry with his mouth hanging open once again.

Harry shook himself and, not wanting to waste his aunt’s sudden generosity, placed the clean frying pan back on the range. He dug in the fridge for the _real_ eggs, which Petunia kept hidden in the back of the crisper drawer, and cracked two into the pan as it heated up. He placed two slices of bread in the toaster oven and, when the eggs were done, sat down at the kitchen table. There was fake butter spread instead of real butter, but Harry spread a bit of it on his toast anyway.

Bewildered, he ate _real_ eggs, still hot, and warm toast. Not wanting to upset Aunt Petunia when she’d offered him extra food, Harry obediently ate the rest of his grapefruit, too. He cleaned up after himself and walked back upstairs, still puzzled by the sudden generosity of the woman who had largely starved him for the past fifteen years.

* * *

Harry quickly realized that his thoughts were, overwhelmingly, focused on Hermione. He was angry about Sirius’ death, and heartbroken at losing his godfather, after having had only two years to get to know him. But _Hermione_ – Hermione was his _best friend._ And she had almost died because of his stupidity. She had almost died because he had allowed himself to be tricked. She had gotten hurt because he hadn’t listened to the friend who had _always_ stayed by him. As Harry worked his way through an essay on the principles of human transfiguration, Hermione was never far from his thoughts. At night, he continued to wake from dreams in which Hermione fell through the veil, like Sirius had done, or whispered over and over again her blame.

Meanwhile, Aunt Petunia blew hot and cold, as if she suddenly couldn’t make up her mind as to how she felt about her own nephew after so many years. Each morning, after Vernon and Dudley left the house, she ordered him to cook an extra breakfast for himself. Four days into the new routine, bacon appeared, stashed behind an enormous pile of grapefruits, and so did dried berries for porridge. Each day at lunch, Harry came downstairs to complete his chores only to find a sandwich – a real sandwich, with turkey in it – made up on the counter.

At dinner time Petunia served him half of what she served Dudley and the first weekend after her mysterious behaviour began, Harry was stuck with a half-grapefruit every morning and no lunch at all. The following Monday, however, once Vernon and Dudley were gone Petunia pulled a box of _pancake mix_ from the very back of the cupboard, and nodded at it before she walked out to the back garden. Harry made pancakes and cleaned the kitchen until it practically sparkled as he tried to figure out just _what_ was happening. He wondered if Tonks had cast some kind of spell on the woman, although he couldn’t think of any spell that would cause such a change. The woman barely said a word to him, and left the room each time she offered him extra food – but she _made lunch_ every day.

The next day, Harry snuck downstairs before lunch and made a large salad, as well as sandwiches. He sat down at the kitchen table noon to see what Aunt Petunia would do. When the woman sat down precisely at noon and ate the salad and half of a sandwich, Harry could only wonder if she’d been replaced by a pod woman like one of the creatures on Dudley’s TV shows. She never said a word, but for once their silence seemed almost _companionable_ rather than full of mutual loathing.

In a week, Harry could see that Petunia’s change of heart was having an effect. The extra food, coupled with his morning chores around the house and garden, meant that he wasn’t losing as much muscle tone as he usually did over the summer, when good meals and quidditch were replaced by chores and starvation.

As time passed, Harry worked his way through the easier to mend toys left in his bedroom and finally there were only five items left on the “broken” side of the bedroom: two VCRs, a television, a video game system, and a box of grey plastic rectangles.

Examining the television, Harry couldn’t see that there was anything wrong with it, and when he plugged it in, the telly turned right on. “Maybe it was just too small for him,” Harry muttered, recalling the year that Vernon had put a television in the kitchen because Dudley had complained.

Giving the video game system a speculative look, Harry plugged in that, too, and matched up the coloured prongs to the ports on the back of the telly. One of the controllers was missing, but the grey rectangles were labelled with the name of the console and he pushed one into the slot on the top of the box at random.

Harry pushed the purple Power button forward and a high-pitched ‘ka-pling’ noise filled the room. He quickly pressed a button on the telly to turn the volume down and watched as colourful characters filled the screen. “Wicked,” he muttered with a little grin, and hit the start button as instructed.

That night, Harry spent over two hours learning how to make Mario and Yoshi jump, run, and even fly their way over obstacles and multi-coloured turtles. When he turned everything off and went to sleep, green dinosaurs in orange boots jumping on top of turtles filled his dreams.

_Harry sat on Yoshi’s back, surveying the green vista before him. Golden bricks galore, some of them obviously filled with coins and other prizes, littered the sky and ground. Colourful turtles paced back and forth on some of the golden bricks, and flying turtles swooped back and forth overhead._

_Harry pointed forward, and Yoshi obediently began to run. The two stomped on turtle after turtle, earning a stash of coins and a pretty feather cape along the way. As they jumped across a particularly wide hole, however, the dinosaur suddenly threw Harry, who landed, wobbling, on a brick._

_As Harry watched in horror, the friendly dinosaur suddenly elongated, his feet disappearing. He grew and grew, becoming an enormous snake. The sky darkened and suddenly they weren’t in a green field anymore: they were in the ministry. Hermione stood, unknowing, with the snake between her and Harry. As Harry shouted for her to run, the snake – Nagini, the green dinosaur had become Nagini! – raced along the floor and caught up the witch in its coils. As Harry watched in horror, the creature bit Hermione and, when the witch was stunned, unhinged its jaws and began to devour her whole._

Harry shot up in bed, panting, and tried not to throw up. He was soaked in sweat, his clothing damp. He looked at the door to his bedroom, waiting for Vernon to barge in, but no one did. It was a long time before his heart stopped pounding and he could fall asleep once again.

* * *

Three weeks after arriving at Privet Drive, Harry returned to his room after breakfast to find a great barn owl rapping at the window, its white face practically pressed against the glass with impatience. Harry hastily grabbed a pair of owl treats from Hedwig’s cage and opened the window.

The owl settled on the sill and dropped its letter in front of Harry, who immediately handed over the treats. The bird bore around its neck a thin, silvery chain with an unusual seal. With a start, Harry recognized the seal as that of Gringotts, the wizarding bank. He glanced down at the letter, which was addressed:

_Mr. Harry J. Potter_

_The Smallest Bedroom_

_4 Privet Drive_

_Little Whinging, Surrey_

The owl hooted softly and seemed to point its beak at Harry, who carefully tore open the envelope and slid out the folded letter within. He sat down on the edge of his bed and unfolded the letter, scanning its contents quickly. It had been written on official Gringotts letterhead with ornate yet clear black script.

_Dear Mr. Potter:_

_The Goblin Horde and the staff of Gringotts Wizarding Bank express our condolences upon the recent loss of your godfather, Sirius Black._

_Mr. Black filed a will with Gringotts prior to his passing naming you as the recipient of one or more bequests, and therefore I request your presence no later than 22 July to attend to the matter of Mr. Black’s estate. Please respond by owl with a date and time convenient to you._

_Ripnok_

_Head of Wizarding Trusts and Estates_

_Gringotts Wizarding Bank_

_Diagon Alley, London_

Harry took a deep breath; Sirius had left him – something. He would rather have had Sirius back, but perhaps he had left something that Harry could remember his godfather by. Still waiting on the windowsill, the barn owl hooted a reminder of its presence. Apparently it had been instructed to await his reply.

Rising from the bed, Harry walked over to the small, battered desk to one side of the room. He’d used an old school book to prop up one leg of the pressed wood furniture; Dudley had broken it and so it was Harry’s now. The desk still wobbled a fair bit, but at least he could write on it. He checked the calendar, first, and then picked up his quill and a piece of parchment. Writing quickly, but with an attempt at neat penmanship, Harry responded to Ripnok:

_Ripnok_

_Head of Wizarding Trusts and Estates_

_Gringotts Wizarding Bank_

_Diagon Alley, London_

_Dear Ripnok:_

_Thank you for your condolences. I will come to Gringotts on 19 July at 1pm to discuss my godfather’s estate._

_Sincerely,_

_Harry J. Potter_

Harry folded the letter and sealed it, then handed it to the owl, which promptly took off with a beating of wings that produced enough wind to make his hair look even wilder than usual. Harry shut the window and sat down once more – this time to plan out just how he was supposed to get to Diagon Alley. He forgot, for a moment, the pain of the past several weeks as he focused on plotting how to get out of Number Four Privet Drive.

From the bottom of his nightstand drawer, Harry dug up the train schedule he’d used to get home after Hagrid had taken him shopping in Diagon Alley. He quickly decided against asking Dumbledore or the other members of the Order for help; after all, he hadn’t heard from anyone in weeks and no one had bothered to tell him what was going on with Voldemort – or anything else.

Harry eventually mapped out a path: he would walk to Langley Station and take the train to Paddington Station in London. The Underground connected to Paddington and he could take one of those lines to Charing Cross Station. From there, he thought he could walk to the Leaky Cauldron easily enough.


	3. The Vaults

After breakfast on the morning of July 19, Harry carefully packed a rucksack with his wand and a bag of galleons. Into his front pocket went a folded wallet with muggle money. It wasn’t much, but it would get him to Diagon Alley and back. Then, he waited silently in his bedroom as Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia got ready for the day.

When Vernon had gone and Aunt Petunia had gone into the garden, Harry quietly snuck down the stairs. He stepped outside and walked to the side of the house, then threw on his Invisibility Cloak where no one could see him do it. Quickly, he started down the sidewalk on Privet Drive. His heart pounded, sounding thunderous to his ears, as he reached the corner of Privet and Langford Drive. What if the Order was watching the house? What if there were spells that let Dumbledore know if he left the house?

When Harry crossed the street and no one apparated into the middle of the street to escort him back, his shoulders loosened and he breathed slightly easier. In fact, except for a few children playing in the front yard of Number Eight Langford Drive, Harry didn’t see anyone at all. And while polyjuice potion could have been used to disguise Tonks and Remus as small children, he didn’t think the Order would be that clever.

When he reached the turn that would take him to Langley Road, Harry relaxed entirely. Whatever protections Dumbledore had on the house on Privet Drive, they didn’t appear to extend to monitoring his comings and goings. He had been to Langley Station before, and so he knew it would be about a half-hour walk from Langley Road. Still, he’d given himself nearly an hour until the next train to Paddington – just in case the schedules had changed since 1991. Despite the good weather and the time of day, there were few people on the road.

Once he reached Langley, Harry snuck into a hidden corner of the station and, checking for Muggles, removed his invisibility cloak. He stuffed it back into his rucksack and then walked into the station proper. With a minimum of fuss he purchased a rail ticket to Paddington Station and sat down on a bench to wait for his train to arrive.

He’d missed the morning rush, and so when Harry boarded the train to Paddington just before 11am, it was nearly empty. He settled onto a padded seat toward the back of one train car and stared out the window until a conductor took his ticket.

* * *

At Paddington Station, Harry dodged late-morning travellers and businessmen on their way to important meetings, and found a ticket booth. He purchased a round-trip Travelcard at the recommendation of the attendant, and took the Circle line to the Euston Square Station. When he emerged from the tube, he examined a map framed on the wall of the station near the entrance before heading out to the street. A clock in the station had read 12:15 – he had plenty of time to find his way to the Leaky Cauldron.

When Harry arrived at the Leaky Cauldron fifteen minutes later, he hurried through, his hair brushed over his scar and head ducked down, to avoid being stopped by Tom or anyone else. Once at the brick wall, Harry threw his cloak back on before tapping the bricks. From there, he made his way toward the north side of the Alley, his speed hampered by the need to avoid bumping into anyone. The Alley was less crowded than he recalled, but that only meant that he needed to be more careful not to bump into another witch or wizard.

Harry walked up the gleaming white steps of Gringotts shortly before 1pm. He stepped behind a pillar and removed his cloak, stuffing it inside his rucksack before walking through the bank’s golden doors. Silently he walked to the nearest available teller, and leaned toward the golden bars to introduce himself.

“Er – hullo,” he started. “I’m Harry Potter – I have an appointment with Ripnok, Head of Trusts and Estates.”

“Of course, Mr. Potter. Please come with me. Ripnok is expecting you,” the goblin teller replied. He jumped down from his chair behind the gold bars and opened them – they turned out to be a door large enough for Harry to walk through. The teller led Harry further into Gringotts and past several offices until they reached the one labelled “Ripnok: Trusts and Estates.” The goblin teller bowed Harry into the office and then shut the door behind him.

Harry sat, hesitantly, at a gesture from the goblin behind the enormous oak desk. Unlike the tellers, this goblin wore a three piece grey suit. The buttons on his vest and the cufflinks at his wrists gleamed golden in the light from the globes hanging above their heads. The office itself was small and the desk filled half the space; the wood panelling on the walls was darker than the desk, and made the office look dignified. Harry sat up in his chair and tried to look attentive.

“Mr. Potter,” the goblin began in a low yet slightly nasal voice, “Thank you for coming. As I shared with you in my initial letter, we will be discussing the matter of Sirius Black’s estate, as well as the Ancient and Noble House of Black.” The goblin unfolded the arms of a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and slid them on, where they perched on his nose and wrapped around the backs of his ears. With sharp-clawed, short-fingered hands he opened a large, old-looking brown leather folio.

“Now then, before his death, Sirius Black met with me to set his affairs in order. He officially named _you_ , Mr. Potter, as his sole heir and the heir to the Black family fortune. As a result, you will be given access to Mr. Black’s personal vault, Vault 711, and to the Black family vaults – Vaults 734 and 836. The Black family trust vaults, of which there are three, will be accessible to you as a trustee for the purposes of monitoring expenditures and making financial arrangements on the behalf of any minor beneficiaries.”

Harry leaned back in his chair with a slow breath and tried not to stare too closely at Ripnok. “I’m sorry,” he finally said, “But…what does that _mean_ , exactly?”

Ripnok slid a sheaf of parchment across the desk, and Harry picked it up gingerly. “It means that you have inherited several million galleons across vaults 711, 734, and 836, Mr Potter. I do suggest that you combine them, along with the Potter vaults, into one of our maximum security vaults. Gringotts would be happy to assist you in conducting an inventory as well. I understand that there are a number of family heirlooms spread across the vaults.”

“Call me Harry,” he mumbled offhand, but the plural _Potter vaults_ made him sit up higher in his chair. “Did – did you say Potter _vaults_?” Harry asked. “As in, there is more than one?”

Ripnok squinted at Harry. “Indeed. Were you not aware of the Potter family vault to which your trust vault is tied, Harry? His voice grew more suspicious when Harry shook his head and he asked, “Are you not aware of the family’s property?” Another headshake met these words. “The _title?_ ”

Harry shook his head again, which had already started to ache. “No – none of this has ever been mentioned to me.” He jerked back in his chair, startled, when Ripnok began to hiss something.

“Forgive me, Harry. I will be just a moment.” The goblin rose from his chair and opened the door to his office. He stepped out and shut the door behind him.

Harry took a deep breath and looked down at the parchment in his hands. At the top was the official Gringotts seal, followed by the words, “Statement of Accounts: Ancient and Noble House of Black”. He began to read the first page, which contained a set of figures and monthly account balances, when the door swung open again.

Ripnok had returned, and following him was a second goblin, taller than Ripnok and twice as intimidating. “Mr Potter, allow me to introduce you to Ragnok, the President of Gringotts and Chieftain of the Goblin Horde,” he said. Like Ripnok, Ragnok wore a three-piece suit, this one of black wool; unlike Ripnok, however, he also wore a belt around his waist from which a wicked-looking axe hung. The goblin’s ears were short, for a goblin, and angled almost straight up from his head. His nose looked as if it had been broken and set poorly more than once; despite that, Harry thought that the goblin looked rather distinguished and even a little lordly.

Harry stood and gave an awkward half-bow, which Ragnok gravely returned before both goblins sat down behind the large desk.

“Mr Potter, Ripnok tells me that you were unaware of the accounts held in your family’s name here at Gringotts – is that correct?” Ragnok’s voice was significantly less nasal than the other goblins Harry had met; perhaps whatever had been done to his nose had caused that.

Harry offered a nod as he returned to his seat. “Yes, Chieftain Ragnok. I had thought that my vault, 687, was the only vault in my name here at the bank.” He paused. “It seemed like the vault had a lot in it – when Hagrid told me that it was my family’s vault, I thought my parents must have been well-off.”

Ripnok and Ragnok exchanged glances, and conferred quietly in Gobbledegook. Finally, Ragnok replied, “Mr Potter, I am _embarrassed_ that you were not aware of your family’s resources and legacy. Your magical guardian should have shared this information shortly after you received your Hogwarts letter. At the _very_ least, he should have told you about the manor.”

Harry looked between the two goblins, his expression puzzled once again. “But Chieftain – I don’t have a magical guardian.”

The two goblins exchanged several more words; this time they sounded angry. “Of course you have a magical guardian,” Ripnok spat. “As your legal guardian is a muggle, Albus Dumbledore was named your magical guardian in 1981.”

Harry leaned back in his chair, mind racing. Dumbledore had never told him that he was Harry’s guardian. He hadn’t told him that the Potters had money other than what was in his vault – or whatever title Ripnok was talking about. Why? Did he think that the Dursleys would get the funds? Had it, somehow, slipped his mind? Dumbledore had been keeping secrets for years now, and Harry found himself breathing deeply to calm the anger suddenly roaring in his head and chest.

“No one has spoken to me about _any_ of this, Chieftain,” he repeated, and this time his voice roughened with suppressed anger. “Does Dumbledore have access to all of this information? Does he have access to the vaults?” He didn’t want to think that Dumbledore might have deliberately hidden this from him, but felt that he had to ask. The older wizard was so very good at keeping secrets – had he hidden this from him as well? And if he had, _why?_

“No, Mr Potter, Dumbledore does not have access to the Potter ancestral vault, nor will he have access to the Black vaults,” Ripnok assured. “He has limited access to your trust vault, for the purposes of paying the fees associated with your education.”

There was a knock at the door, and a goblin teller poked his head in. “Narcissa and Draco Malfoy have arrived, sirs,” the teller reported. Harry began to rise from his chair, assuming that he had stayed past his appointment, but Ragnok waved him back down.

“This concerns you as well, Mr Potter.”

Narcissa Malfoy swept in, her fine black silk summer robes swirling around her. She sniffed openly at Harry as she took a seat in the chair furthest from him. Draco followed her, pale and peaky – he looked sicker than usual in his own black suit and crisp white shirt.

“Ragnok, why is… _he_ here?” Narcissa asked, her nose wrinkled and gaze directed at the two goblins. Her pale blonde hair was swept up into a chignon, but it did nothing to soften the sharp angles of her face. With efficient movements, she removed a black pill box hat from the top of her head and placed it in her lap.

Ragnok seemed to barely contain a smirk. “Mr Potter is also here concerning the Ancient and Noble House of Black, Mrs Malfoy. Ripnok, if you would?” he asked.

Ripnok adjusted the gold spectacles on his face before turning back to his folio. “Indeed, thank you, Chieftain. As I was just explaining to Mr Potter, the late Sirius Black left a will prior to his death. The will of Sirius Black was duly witnessed, signed, and registered here at Gringotts on April 3, 1996.

“As Mr Black was the Head of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, he designated Harry James Potter, known to be his godson, as the Head of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black. Mr Potter will receive access to all of the Black family vaults. He will, further, receive title and deed to all properties owned by the Black family.” Ripnok paused and eyed the three wizards in his office. “This includes all properties owned by Sirius Black, of course.”

Harry knew that Ripnok was referring to Number 12 Grimmauld Place, but could not say so as it was still under a Fidelis. He snuck a glance at Mrs Malfoy and at Draco, both of whom looked increasingly ill.

“Finally, Mr Potter shall receive the contents of Sirius Black’s personal vault,” Ripnok finished.

“Impossible!” Narcissa snapped. “Regulus Black was the heir! When he died, the family legacy should have gone to Draco. Sirius was _thrown out_.”

Ripnok removed his spectacles slowly and stared at Narcissa. “Mrs Malfoy, Sirius Black was Regulus Black’s brother. Regulus and Mr Malfoy were merely second cousins.” He paused, and glanced at Harry. “Per ministry law you may contest the will, of course, however, Mrs Malfoy, you will almost certainly lose.”

Narcissa sniffed. “Well, I don’t see how. Harry Potter is not even _related_ to the Black family by blood.”

“I was Sirius’ godson,” Harry interjected. He didn’t really want the money – but the idea of Lucius Malfoy getting his hands on it was disgusting. He knew that the Death Eater would use every last knut to fund Voldemort’s operations and bribe whoever he had to in the ministry.

“Indeed, Mr Potter,” Ragnok replied, with a quelling look. “In fact, Dorea Black-Potter’s marriage to Charlus Potter means that you _are_ related by blood.” He turned to Narcissa. “When Regulus Black the second died, the legal ownership of the Black properties and legacy passed to his brother, as he did not leave a will. It would be odd, indeed, for the properties to pass automatically to a _second cousin_.”

“So Potter gets everything, then?” Draco asked with a sneer. “Why are you wasting our time?” Mrs Malfoy shot him a look, and the boy leaned back in his chair but glowered at the goblins silently.

Ragnok drew himself up to his full height. “Mr Malfoy, Gringotts is not _wasting your time_. Ripnok has not yet covered the matter of the Black family trusts.” He consulted the parchment that Ripnok passed to him. “Sirius Black has created a vault in trust for you, and has also bequeathed a selection of family heirlooms. Vault 230.”

Narcissa sniffed once more. “And the other Black family trusts?” she asked.

Ripnok glanced down at his paperwork. “The other trusts are for members of the Black family not currently in this room,” he shared.

Narcissa rose in a flurry of silk. “Well then, we’d like to see the vault now if there is nothing else.” She looked at Harry, her eyes narrowed and her eyebrows drawn down in an expression of disgust. “We will be considering our legal options, I assure you.”

Ragnok stood and, with a brief nod to Harry, stepped to the office door. “I would be pleased to escort you to the vault myself, Mrs Malfoy, Mr Malfoy. Follow me, please.”

When Narcissa and Draco had left, Harry turned to Ripnok. “Can they actually contest the will?” he asked.

Ripnok nodded, a touch grimly. “They can, although the likelihood of success is low. Narcissa Malfoy is the only person with any standing, and she can’t contest the title. Nevertheless, I do suggest that you retain a solicitor. I can provide you with several names.”

Harry nodded quickly. “Please. I don’t know any, myself.”

Ripnok stood. “I will owl you a list by tomorrow evening. In the meantime, allow me to prepare keys for you to the three Black vaults. We can discuss the combination of the various vaults at a later date.” Ripnok paused. “You should claim the Potter and Black titles as soon as you can, Mr Potter. It will provide you with a number of…options.”

Harry, overwhelmed, just nodded and allowed the goblin to lead him to a second office. There, he was asked for a sample of his blood. “I’d – I’d like to make an appointment for later in the summer,” he requested. “To discuss the vaults and the properties, as you suggested.”

Ripnok offered an agreeable nod as he placed three ornate gold keys into a black velvet bag and handed it to Harry. “Send an owl with your preferred appointment time, Mr Potter. I am at your disposal.”

When Harry left the bank a few minutes later, he stopped at Slug & Jiggers. Brushing his hair over his scar, he stepped in and purchased two bottles of Dreamless Sleep Potion. With a warning from the shop’s owner ringing in his ears about becoming addicted, Harry left the shop with a heavier rucksack and exited the alley through the back of the Leaky Cauldron. He needed to get back to Privet Drive.


	4. Interlude: Vault 230

The mine cart slowed to a halt in front of Vault 230. It was a much smaller vault than the Malfoy’s, Draco could see; it wasn’t even on one of the more secure levels. _Then again, if it’s a trust vault it wouldn’t be very large, would it?_ he reflected.

His mother was shocked by the very existence of the vault, he could tell; Grandfather Cygnus might have settled tens of thousands of galleons on Narcissa when she married, but if _he_ had created the trust, he’d clearly neglected to tell his youngest daughter before he died. In fact, he recalled that his father had been enraged when the old man died because neither his mother nor Aunt Bellatrix had received the windfall Lucius Malfoy was expecting.

The door held no markings and boasted no crest the way the Malfoy vault did; except for the rivets holding the metal together, it was undecorated and utterly ordinary. Ragnok drew an iron key from his pocket and used it to unlock the sealed door. It unbolted with a clang that echoed throughout the caverns and as the goblin pulled it open, a few lanterns within the vault flared to life.

Draco could see, now, the golden galleons gleaming in the lantern light; they formed haphazard piles, with a few sickles and knuts scattered amongst the gold. Four brown wooden boxes, ranging from a few inches in length to nearly three feet tall, were scattered on and around a small table in the middle of the room. Several sheets of parchment sat next to the smallest box. When Narcissa stepped forward to enter the vault, a ward pressed her back and shimmered like iridescent mother-of-pearl in the lantern light. She huffed, but gestured at Draco.

“Well, Draco,” Narcissa prompted with a wave of her hand. “This is _your_ trust vault. I suppose only you can enter.”

Draco just nodded and stepped through; the wards parted for him easily. Ignoring the gold, he reached for the parchments on the little wooden table. Picking up the first sheet of parchment, he began to read.

 _Malfoy,_ it began,

 _I had thought of leaving you with nothing, but I think this is a better choice. It is the one Uncle Alphard made for me many years ago. The contents of this vault are yours and yours alone._ _The Black legacy is one that looks down on anyone that isn’t a pureblood and glorifies the twisted teachings that Voldemort has used to poison many wealthy families. He poisoned the Black family, including my brother. He has injected his poison into your father and likely your mother, too._ _I have left you enough of the Black family fortune to make your own decisions. Invested wisely, you will be able to make your own path in life._

_Sirius Black_

_Head of the Ancient and Noble House of Black_

The next parchment, beneath Sirius’ letter, was a list of details concerning the terms of the trust. Draco read over them carefully; he would be allowed to take out as much as eight thousand galleons annually, but could apply for more under certain circumstances. The trust would be rescinded if he took the Dark Mark or committed murder.

As he read through the rest of the terms, Draco felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. The final statement at the bottom of the scroll read: _You will not be able to tell anyone about the contents of this vault._ As soon as he read the words, he felt the magic settle upon him, tying his tongue and shielding the knowledge in his mind.

Draco allowed the parchment to fall back to the table. He swallowed, heavily, and glanced back toward the front of the vault; his mother waited just outside, her foot tapping with impatience. For the first time, he wondered if he could trust his mother; he’d known since his father put a cursed diary in the hands of a little girl that he couldn’t trust Lucius Malfoy. Ginevra Weasley had been a _child,_ and Lucius hadn’t cared that he might have killed not only her but the purebloods of Slytherin. He’d tried to warn Potter, when his father let slip the secret of Slytherin’s monster; Granger had understood what the paper meant, but it was too late by the time he was able to hide his warning in her books.

Draco shook himself of the memory and picked up a second piece of parchment. It was the vault statement: Sirius hadn’t just left him a few galleons. He’d left Draco 150,000 galleons and four heirlooms from the Black family. The letter was right; if he invested and used it wisely, there would be enough for him to make his own way in life no matter _what_ happened between Potter and the Dark Lord.

He scanned the list of heirlooms silently. There was a mirror that had belonged to his great, great grandmother; his great-grandmother’s wedding ring; a book trimmed with gold leaf; and his grandfather’s diamond-crusted cufflinks. Draco shook his head – what had prompted Sirius to leave those four particular items in the vault? He looked toward the boxes, but his mother was waiting, and he could always return later in the summer. In fact, if his mother moved forward with contesting Potter’s claim to the Black estate, he was sure he’d be at Gringotts quite a lot.

With a deep breath, Draco left the vault and allowed Ragnok to seal it. “Well?” Narcissa asked. “What is inside the vault?”

Draco’s eyes shot to Ragnok with a startled look. To him, the piles of gold had been easily visible through the ward. The goblin offered the boy a surreptitious nod. “Junk,” he found himself saying. “A few galleons and some junk. A prank by _Uncle Sirius,_ ” he sneered. 

Two red spots of colour appeared on Narcissa’s cheeks and she drew herself up; she looked as angry as Draco had ever seen her. After a moment, though, she took a deep breath and stepped back into the mine cart. “Very well,” she said calmly. “We will speak with your father’s solicitor tomorrow regarding our next steps.”

Draco followed his mother into the cart and held on silently as Ragnok drove the two Malfoys back to the surface. He had a lot of thinking to do.


	5. Many Potions

Hermione rolled over with a groan and looked at the digital cloak on her nightstand; it read 11:43. She’d slept in again. With another groan, she struggled to swing her legs around and rise from the bed. Her pale blue nightshirt fell down around her hips as she straightened up. One hand drifted to her ribs with a wince, and she sat very still until the searing pain dulled. Turning, she feebly pushed the covers back up to give her bed a semblance of neatness. The bedspread was faded lavender cotton, a leftover from when she and her mother had redecorated her bedroom seven years ago. The walls were the same colour, although they’d stood the test of time better than the bedspread. The shade was a bit childish, but Hermione had never bothered to ask for something newer given how much of the year she spent at Hogwarts. After spending nearly ten months of the year surrounded by the brilliant red and gold hues of the Gryffindor common room and dorms, the pale purple was actually soothing.

Slowly, Hermione made her way across her bedroom to the large, built-in white desk that spanned the width of the room. Unopened scrolls, parchment, and books were piled across half of the pale expanse of wood. She gave the pile a baleful look before turning her attention to the neatly arranged row of potion bottles that lined the right side of the desk. There were seven altogether, each a different shape and size. The largest gleamed silver in the light from the closest window, while next to it a deep red, viscous liquid shuddered whenever the desk shifted ever so slightly under the weight of Hermione’s left hand. The smallest was filled not with a liquid potion but with pale, yellow-hued powder. A piece of parchment sat in front of the bottles, its surface covered in neatly-written script.

_Miss Granger:_

_As we discussed, you must follow the potion regimen described below at the intervals I have prescribed. Should you require assistance or experience any additional symptoms, please do not hesitate to send a note via owl post at once._

_Poppy Pomfrey, Matron_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

**_Once Daily:_ **

_1 dose Draught of Peace_

_½ dose Blood Replenishing Potion_

_½ dose Draught of Heartsease_

_Essence of Dittany (apply at night)_

**_Twice Daily:_ **

_Essence of Murtlap (apply morning and night)_

**_As Needed:_ **

_1 dose Dreamless Sleep Potion, no more than three times per week_

_Ginger root powder, combined with one glass warm water_

Hermione picked up the potion bottle labelled _Draught of Peace_ and pulled the stopper out of the opening with a low pop. She poured a dose into the small, labelled cup that Madam Pomfrey had included with the potion bottles. The potion emitted a silvery vapour as she lifted it to her lips and drank the unpleasant concoction as quickly as she could manage it. She took a hasty swig from the water pitcher next to the bottles to rinse her mouth out, and then repeated the procedure with smaller doses of the viscous Blood-Replenishing Potion and the floral-scented Draught of Heartsease.

Silently, she removed her nightshirt. A ragged, half-healed wound spread across her torso from the tops of her breasts nearly to her pubic bone; Hermione thought it resembled a Lichtenberg figure, as though she had been struck by lightning rather than a wizard’s dark curse. With a sigh, she slowly walked into the bathroom attached to her bedroom and stepped into the shower.

A few minutes later, Hermione walked back over to her desk wearing only a towel. She removed the stopper from the wide-mouthed bottle labelled _Essence of Murtlap_ and dipped a foam brush into the pale yellow solution to soak it. Once the brush was thoroughly soaked through, Hermione removed the towel and began to paint the solution across the wound covering her torso. She sighed as the essence began to take effect immediately, easing the lingering pain and soreness. She remembered, briefly, offering Harry bowls of the stuff to soak his hand, and shook her head at the memory.

Once the solution dried, she dressed for the day in a loose, flowy green cotton dress. She’d had to ask her mother to buy several sundresses for her – Madam Pomfrey had warned Hermione against wearing anything that would be tight around her waist and irritate her wounds.

Finally, she left the bedroom and walked downstairs into the kitchen. She had to stop halfway down and rest on the landing, but at half past twelve Hermione poured herself a bowl of cereal and sat down at the kitchen table.

Crookshanks meowed piteously from the corner of the kitchen where the Grangers kept his food bowls, and Hermione stood once more. “Sorry, Crooks,” she murmured. “I know I overslept.” She picked up the bowls and washed them in the sink before filling one with fresh water and the other with a jar of food that the Magical Menagerie sold for half-kneazles. With her orange pet purring eagerly and chowing down on his food, Hermione sat back down and slowly ate her cereal.

After breakfast, Hermione washed her bowl and utensils and then began her trip back upstairs. With Crookshanks following her, she climbed the stairs slowly and stopped on the landing to rest. Her heart was already racing from the exertion, but a backfiring car outside caused a half-suppressed shriek to climb its way out of her throat. Crookshanks purred at her urgently and circled Hermione, bottle-brush tail on end, as she took shallow breaths to calm herself.

Finally, she continued up the staircase and back into her bedroom. Pushing the bottles of potions out of the way, Hermione laid out a scroll, quill, and ink, and picked up two of the books piled on her desk. With a nod of determination, she sat down at her desk and opened the first book.

That determination dampened only half an hour later, when Hermione’s stomach began to churn and cramp. With only three paragraphs written on her Transfiguration essay, she tried to ignore the pain, but it only grew as the measly bowl of cereal in her stomach disagreed with the three potions she’d taken. When she broke out in a cold sweat and nausea made her gorge rise, Hermione stood with a grimace and hurried to the loo. Crookshanks jumped from his perch on Hermione’s bed to follow, pawing at the closed door while his mistress suffered.

* * *

When the Doctors Granger returned home from their surgery in the early evening, the house was silent. Emma Jean Granger turned on the lights in her kitchen and frowned: the kitchen was immaculate. Hermione was reasonably good at cleaning up after herself, but usually there was _some_ sign that her daughter had eaten lunch. “Dan, would you check on Hermione while I start dinner?” she asked, as she pulled chicken breasts and a large bag of broccoli from the refrigerator.

As Dan started to climb the stairs to Hermione’s room, Emma pulled her wavy brown hair into a bun, washed her hands, and donned a plain blue apron. As she rinsed the broccoli and chopped it into florets, her amber brown eyes periodically glanced up the stairs in concern.

Dan Granger loosened his tie as he climbed the stairs and took a right toward Hermione’s room. He and Emma had given their daughter the bedroom at the opposite end of the hallway from theirs when she turned thirteen, as a way of providing her with some extra privacy. Hermione’s door was closed, as it had been when they left the house that morning, and Dan knocked on it firmly. When there was no response, he knocked a second time before cracking open the door.

Hermione’s father had nearly fallen over the first time he’d seen the scene that was laid out before him, but on this evening he just sighed and flipped a light switch to turn on the lamp next to Hermione’s bed. His daughter was curled up on her bed, fully clothed but fast asleep, with Crookshanks curled at her feet like a bright orange sentry.

In the low, warm yellow light of the bedside lamp he could see that there were circles of exhaustion beneath his daughter’s eyes despite the fact that she’d still been asleep when he and Emma had left the house that morning. A pile of scrolls from _that_ _school_ was on the desk, as well as all sorts of potions that she’d told them were supposed to be helping her. _She can be healed by magic,_ he thought. _So why is she sleeping her day away and still taking all these potions?_

The cat let out a _brrt_ of greeting as Dan sat down at the edge of the bed and gave Hermione’s shoulder a light shake. “Come on, Hermione, it’s time for dinner.”

Hermione startled into wakefulness at the touch of her father’s hand on her shoulder, and pointed her wand at him before she realized it was him. “Sorry, daddy,” she mumbled, as she carefully placed her wand on the nightstand. “I didn’t mean to take such a long nap.”

Dan just patted Hermione’s shoulder and stood from the bed, pale blue eyes glancing at the slender, vine-patterned wooden stick that his daughter had started holding onto even in her sleep. “That’s alright, pumpkin,” he managed. “Your mum’s cooking dinner. Why don’t you wash up and come downstairs?”

Hermione offered a vague nod, and watched as her father left the room, shutting the door behind him. She exchanged a glance with Crookshanks, who got up from his spot to pace around her, purring comfortingly. “I know, Crooks,” she muttered. “I know.”

* * *

When Hermione arrived in the kitchen a quarter of an hour later, her father was just putting glasses of water on the table while her mum spooned steamed broccoli into a serving dish. Crookshanks followed at her heels, and Hermione washed his bowl and gave him another jar of food. The rinsed-out jar went into the recycling bin and she washed her hands before sitting down at the oak table, where her mother had laid out the broccoli, a plate of breaded chicken, and a bowl of steaming hot, herb-scented rice. 

As her parents served themselves, Hermione busied herself by taking a few sips of water. “How was your day?” she asked, when the broccoli had been handed to her. Hermione took a small scoop of the vegetable, as well as of the rice, and a piece of the chicken.

“Not bad, dear. Busy – we had three emergencies before eleven,” Emma said as she began to cut up her chicken. She glanced at Hermione’s plate. “Oh do take more broccoli, Hermione. I made so much of it. Anyway, we had the three emergencies, which I suppose isn’t much of a surprise as it’s the summer break and everyone’s playing outside.”

“Then we had two root canals in the afternoon, and then one last emergency call just as we were closing, as the Peterson’s boy fell and broke a tooth playing football,” Dan added. “And we couldn’t very well turn him away after they helped your mother when the car broke down last month.”

Hermione nodded along, eating the rice and some of her chicken but mostly pushing her food around. The conversation turned to plans for a summer holiday, and she listened to her parents discuss whether to travel to Provence or book a flight to Madrid.

“We can have Donald Burrowes and Maggie Harris cover for us the last two weeks in August,” Emma decided, “And return August 31 so that you’ll be back in time to take the train on September 1, Hermione.”

The young witch looked up from her plate, startled. “Oh, but – the Weasleys have invited Harry and me to the Burrow from the night before Harry’s birthday through the rest of the summer,” she objected. “I wrote before the end of term to let you know.”

Emma and Dan exchanged a look. “Hermione,” Emma began, “We’re not sure it’s the best idea for you to spend so much time at the Burrow this summer. Given your accident at school, we would rather see you recover at home and then come to Spain or Provence with us. It just seems…safer than being at the Burrow.”

Hermione winced. She’d told her parents that the injuries she’d received in the Department of Mysteries were instead due to an accident at school; she’d never told them about Voldemort or most of the trouble that she, Harry, and Ron had gotten into over the past five years. “Mum, the accident had nothing to do with the Weasley family,” she explained. “The Burrow is perfectly safe. And even if I don’t stay with the Weasleys, I can’t come back to England on the thirty-first: I need time to buy my books and new school robes – I’ve outgrown mine again.” She suspected that _outgrown_ wasn’t quite the right word, but they were too short, anyway.

“We’re just concerned, pumpkin,” Dan said. He ran a hand through the short grey and brown hair covering his head. “You told us that your school nurse said you’d be back to normal in no time at all, and you’re sleeping half the day. You barely leave the house. It took you five minutes to get down a _single flight_ of stairs for dinner, Hermione.” With his free hand, he clutched his fork until his knuckles whitened.

Hermione hunched her shoulders and ate a piece of broccoli. “Madam Pomfrey said that it _could_ take some time, dad. But I feel better every day!” she fibbed.

Emma just shook her head, sending a stray curl bobbing back and forth. “We’ve always been very proud of you, Hermione, you know that. Even when your Professor McGonagall came to tell us you were a witch. But that school…it seems so _dangerous_ , dear. Your second year, you were unwell for weeks with wizarding flu, and then you told us after fourth year that a boy _died_ during a sports competition! And now this summer, you’ve come home sick and told us that we can’t even take you to the hospital!”

Hermione winced. Put that way, it did sound rather dire, didn’t it? Dumbledore had told her parents that she’d had wizard’s flu, when she’d been petrified by a basilisk during her second year, and given contagion as the reason she couldn’t write to them for so long. He’d even told them that wizard’s flu was fatal to muggles. And she’d had to tell them about Cedric’s death, because she couldn’t stop crying for a week when she got home, but she’d told them it was a sporting accident. “You can’t take me to a mug- to a normal hospital because I’m a witch, mum. Even paracetamol doesn’t work the same way on me as it does on someone without magic, remember?”

Her parents both seemed to slump in their chairs, just a little. “It just seems so _dangerous_ , Hermione. There’s been an accident or you’ve gotten seriously ill nearly every year you’ve gone to that – that school. If your father and I had a choice…” Emma trailed off. “We wouldn’t let you go back this year.”

“Mum, I have to go back,” Hermione protested. She sat up straighter in her chair, carefully hiding the way it made her ribs ache. “I need to finish at Hogwarts or I won’t be able to practice my magic ever again!”

Emma and Dan exchanged another look. “Would that be so bad?” asked Dan. “You could catch up on the _normal_ schooling you’ve missed. With a little work I’m sure you could take your A-Levels and get into Cambridge or Oxford in a year or two.”

“Of course it would be bad!” Hermione practically shouted. Her mother reeled back at her raised voice, and Hermione continued at a lower volume, “Magic is part of who I am, dad. It’s part of _what_ I am. I can’t just _stop_ using magic.” The very thought of it made her stomach clench up again, and she bent over just a little as the wave of pain coursed through her.

“Alright, Hermione.” Emma’s voice seemed designed to soothe, even as her eyes narrowed in obvious concern for the look of pain on her daughter’s face. “Why don’t we talk about your visit to the Burrow tomorrow? Your dad and I will see if we can arrange for a family vacation the week before.” She turned her attention back to the chicken on her plate, but exchanged another look with her husband.

When Hermione excused herself a few minutes later, Emma waved her away. She waited for the tell-tale sounds of her daughter’s feet on the stairs to fade, and then turned back to Dan. “If only we _could_ take her out of that school,” she said bitterly. “Part of what she _is_? If I had my way, I’d tell that headmaster of hers that we’re sending her to Charterhouse. Shelley’s still the head of admissions there, and she was falling all over herself to admit Hermione a few years ago.”

Dan reached over and patted Emma’s hand gently. “I know, dear. But I’m not sure Hermione would ever forgive us for it, even if we _could_ send her somewhere else.”

* * *

Later that night, as Hermione worked on her essay for Transfiguration, a research paper on the history of animagus transformation prior to the founding of Hogwarts, she glanced longingly at the pale, vine-carved wand on her nightstand. She’d been reading a book, recently, on the theory of magical cores. The latest chapter had talked about how illness or injury could affect a wizard’s core, for good or ill. Away from Hogwarts, she couldn’t test her hypothesis, but Hermione had felt there was something wrong when she left the Hogwarts Express that last afternoon at Kings Cross. Even now, as she did nothing more magical than write a paper about magic, she felt ill at ease.

“And I can’t test it even if they _do_ let me go to the Burrow,” she muttered as she finished a sentence on the druidess Cliodna. Absently, she rubbed a hand against her chest, which had started to itch. It would be time to apply both the dittany and murtlap soon, and she wanted to finish another half-foot of the essay in front of her, before her nightly routine made her too sticky to sit at her desk. 

Later, dressed in a pale nightgown, Hermione twisted and turned feverishly in bed.

_Purple light flared from Dolohov’s wand and struck, and Hermione’s body fell, even as spell fire continued to flash back and forth above her head. Paralysed by the pain, bleeding from wounds seen and unseen, Hermione could only lie silently on the hard floor until Harry and Neville came for her. “Useless,” Harry muttered, as Neville took most of her weight. “Couldn’t even dodge a simple spell. Get her out of here, Neville,” he demanded as he sneered in disgust._

_Neville glanced down at Hermione and shook his head. “Should have been able to dodge that, mudblood,” he told her in a voice not at all like his own._

_Even as Hermione continued to bleed all over herself, she watched Harry duel Bellatrix, watched as the Order arrived, watched as Sirius died._

As Harry began to scream his grief, Hermione shot up in bed, gasping for air. Her chest felt tight, like a steel band had been wrapped around it. Crookshanks meowed an inquiry at her, and when Hermione sobbed, once, the cat curled up next to her hip and began to purr aggressively, as if it would make her feel better. After a few minutes, Hermione found that his purring _did_ soothe her, just a little, and she lay back down, running her fingers through her cat’s long, orange fur.

Silently, she reminded herself that Harry hadn’t called her useless, and that Neville would _never_ have called her such an awful name. In fact, Harry had told her that it was Neville who reacted first and started to drag her to safety. As she slowly drifted back to sleep, Hermione tried to match her breathing to Crookshanks’ purring. The steel band loosened just a little, and she slept, if uneasily, through the rest of the night.


	6. Debenhams and Dursleys

Three days after returning from his trip to London, Harry received another letter by owl post from Gringotts. This one recommended two different solicitors, with the first being recommended in particular _due to his experience in both the magical and muggle worlds, the latter of which will serve you well in dealings related to the Black family investments,_ Ripnok’s letter advised.

Harry quickly drafted a letter to the solicitor, Martin Armitage, as Ripnok had suggested. The letter requested Mr Armitage’s aid in handling the potential contestation of Sirius’ will by the Malfoys, as well as several other legal matters. Looking down at the enormous khaki trousers he was wearing, he then drafted a second letter to Ripnok, thanking him for his recommendations and requesting a withdrawal from his trust account in muggle pounds. Harry was sure to note that, due to his current location, traveling to London a second time would pose a difficulty. He could only hope that suddenly being a much _larger_ account holder would mean Ripnok would be willing to help him out. After all, it wasn’t as if there was a Gringotts branch in Surrey.

Harry handed both letters to Hedwig, who chirruped at him affectionately before flying out the open window.

He turned his attention to another video game, but Harry didn’t have long to wait for a response from Gringotts: less than an hour after he sent Hedwig out, she returned carrying a thick envelope. Harry opened the envelope to find six hundred pounds enclosed in the form of crisp, new-looking bills, as well as a thin leather wallet and a short note from Ripnok: _This wallet will keep your pounds safe. During your next visit to Gringotts, we should discuss options to ensure you have sufficient access to your accounts when traveling in the muggle world._

Harry shook his head, but stuck the pounds in the slender wallet. He’d just need to add another item to the Gringotts list when he visited the next time around. He pulled out a brand-new bus schedule, as well as a map of Surrey and the surrounding area that he’d picked up at Langley Station. It was time to find a way to get to a store – any store, really – where he could buy some clothes that fit properly. Even now he was wearing castoffs from Dudley, and he was properly sick of using tied-together old shoelaces to make sure his jeans fit. In the back of his mind, he thought that he might like to have Hermione see him in something that fit properly for once; maybe she’d find him attractive.

 _And why do you want her to think you’re attractive?_ Harry asked himself as he stared unseeing at the map. An image from one of his nightmares – the one where Hermione told him she hated him – filled his mind, but it was swiftly replaced with a memory of the first time Hermione had ever cast a patronus. The memory of her beaming smile as the silver otter danced around her slender body was enough to make Harry feel like he could have cast half a dozen patronus spells of his own, then and there, and he smiled a little as he traced the route from Privet Drive to Guildford with one finger. Guildford was far enough away that he was unlikely to be spotted by Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon, he thought.

It was another day before he could sneak out of Number Four Privet Drive again; this time, Harry was almost caught when Dudley suddenly returned home because he’d forgotten to demand money from his mother. At ten to eleven, however, Harry was waiting at the bus stop for a bus that would drop him off right in front of a shopping centre. He was wearing the best clothing he owned, which wasn’t saying much, but he didn’t want anyone to mistake him for a vagabond or think he was going to steal. Once again, he steeled himself for the sudden appearance of a member of the Order or even a Death Eater – but the late-morning trip to Guildford was entirely uneventful.

When Harry arrived in front of the Debenhams at half past one, he gaped openly at the enormous façade before taking a deep breath and walking into the department store. Aunt Petunia had only taken him into a department store once, and none of the stores in Diagon Alley were even a third as large as this one looked. Still, department stores were designed for people who didn’t know where anything was: Harry just followed the signs to the men’s department and looked around until he found the jeans.

Unfortunately, it was there that he was stymied. There were just so many brands, colours, lengths, and waist measurements. He didn’t even know what his size was, and had just started to hold up a third pair of jeans to his waist when a clerk took pity on him.

“Are you looking for anything in particular, young man?”

Harry looked up to find an older gentleman in a suit observing him. He didn’t look unkind or particularly threatening – given the fact that he was balding and wearing a pinstripe suit with a baby blue pocket square – but Harry took a step back just the same.

“Uh, just some new clothes, sir. Mine are too big now, you see,” he explained. At that, the shop clerk’s hazel eyes brightened and he began to smile.

“Well, I can help with that. Why don’t I measure you, and we can pick out the right jeans for your new build?”

Harry gave a short nod and followed the sales clerk, who introduced himself as Doug Harriman, toward an area of the store labelled “Changing Room”. There, Doug whipped out a measuring tape and measured Harry from what seemed like every possible angle. It was almost like being at Madame Malkin’s, save for the fact that Doug didn’t need magic to send his tape swirling around Harry just as fast.

That was how Harry found himself, an hour and a half later, the proud owner of three pairs of jeans, two pairs of trousers, six shirts, socks, a pair of new trainers, a pair of dark brown loafers, a belt, new pyjamas, and even new underwear.

Doug had given him a suspicious look when Harry had pulled out his wallet full of pounds, but the teenager just fibbed again, confiding that his birthday was in a few days and his family couldn’t go shopping with him, so had made sure he had birthday money a little early to ensure he had new, well-fitting clothes for his birthday party. It wasn’t entirely untrue, as far as fibs went. Harry _did_ want to have something nice to wear when he arrived at the Weasleys’ home on his birthday. He felt a little bad for misleading the kindly muggle when the man offered his congratulations one last time on Harry’s supposed weight loss, but Harry preferred the false congratulations to the suspicion and pity he’d face if anyone knew he’d been wearing hand-me-downs for his entire life.

* * *

Petunia Dursley prided herself on her ability to stretch a pound. While Vernon earned an excellent living as a director at Grunnings, her mother had lived through the Second World War. Daisy Evans had survived the Blitz, but she also survived the rationing during and after the war. In fact, when Petunia was a little girl, mum had shown her the ration booklets that she’d grown up using. She’d told, over and over, stories of how the family had grown their own garden and used the National Loaf – mushy though it was – to make each meal go farther.

Daisy had loved Her Royal Highness, Queen Elizabeth, and so Petunia had also grown up hearing that then-Princess Elizabeth herself had obeyed the ration laws, and had even collected ration coupons for her wedding dress. Until the day she died, Daisy kept in a drawer a packet with a letter from the princess’ private secretary: like girls all over England, she had mailed her coupons to the princess so that she could have a beautiful wedding gown. The princess, prohibited by law from using them, had returned the gift with her thanks.

Even after rationing was abolished just before Petunia was born, Daisy continued to clip coupons and shop from the weekly sales circular. She’d done so for the rest of her life. Following her mum’s example, Petunia arrived at the local Sainsbury’s each week armed with a purse full of coupons and her grocery list. A new Waitrose had opened at the start of the summer, however, and so for the past month Petunia Dursley had enjoyed shopping in the new, sparkling clean store and taking advantage of discounts to lure shoppers away from Sainsbury’s.

On the morning of July 23, Petunia set out from Number Four Privet Drive in her black Corsa for just such a trip. Despite their grapefruit diet, her Duddikins and Vernon still ate quite a lot at dinner time. That was how she explained the rising grocery bill to Vernon, who’d questioned the increased expenditures just the night before. The reality, she reflected as she turned left onto the main road, was that she’d been buying food just for _Harry_ for the first time. He’d come home from _that school_ the week after the Waitrose opened, and Petunia simply hadn’t felt the same resentment she usually did each summer when the boy returned to Privet Drive. Instead, she’d seen the lines of grief in his face and the anger in his eyes, and realized that the boy was mourning.

After the first time he’d woken her up, screaming from some horrible nightmare, Petunia had felt something in her unforgiving heart shift. Suddenly, she couldn’t ask her nephew to survive on the grapefruit and egg whites that Dudley and Vernon ate to control their weight. Suddenly, she couldn’t blame the boy for being so angry. Petunia reluctantly turned her thoughts away from her nephew at the sound of a honk behind her; she’d been sitting at a red light for a touch too long.

When she arrived at the store, Petunia secured a shopping cart for herself and reviewed both her list and the packet of coupons in her purse. She needed grapefruit again, and more of the boxes of egg whites that made up their breakfasts. There would be chicken for dinner each night, in accordance with the diet that Dudley’s nurse had laid out, and vegetables to go with the chicken. The Smeltings nurse had expressly forbidden “anything white, unless it’s cauliflower,” and so Petunia had clipped a coupon for a bag of sweet potatoes and another for cans of beans.

Despite the length of the list and the size of the Waitrose, the shopping went by quickly; after all, it was summer, but it was still a weekday. Most of the other shoppers were old women or housewives, like herself, although Petunia neatly avoided seeing anyone she knew. She didn’t particularly want to explain the bacon, cold cuts, salad greens, and loaf of bread in her cart to someone who thought Harry was a delinquent being “educated” at St. Brutus’ Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys. That no one else would question such mundane grocery purchases never occurred to Petunia: she was a busybody, so her friends, neighbours, and fellow shoppers were as well.

Petunia paid for her groceries at the till and carried her bags back to the Corsa. Still deep in thought, she barely noticed the sudden breeze that brushed past her as she loaded her bags into the boot of the car. Closing the boot with a distinct bang, she didn’t see the sickly red light that slithered from out of thin air and disappeared into her back.

* * *

Harry glanced at a clock as he left Debenhams and startled. It was already mid-afternoon. He knew Aunt Petunia was out grocery shopping, but she would be back at Privet Drive soon enough. For all that she’d changed her tune recently, Harry didn’t think that his aunt would look fondly upon his trip to Debenhams or the fact that he’d purchased so much new clothing. And if Vernon found out, he would demand to know where the money had come from.

He considered calling the Knight Bus, as it was sure to be quicker than waiting for the muggle bus to putter in front of Debenhams again, but worried that might call attention to himself. He’d managed to avoid Remus, Tonks, and the other members of the Order so far; he wondered if any of them had even considered the fact that Harry might leave the neighbourhood by using a plain old bus. Even the worldliest members of the Order seemed utterly baffled by the non-magical parts of London, and Harry guessed that he’d managed to stay out of sight simply because no one knew how the muggle trains and busses worked.

Harry looked at the clock again. _I’ll just have to risk it,_ he thought, and looked around for a less crowded area from which to call the bus. There were crowds of other teenagers hanging around the storefronts, although none of them had bothered him. There was, however, a petrol station across the street and down half a block. He thought he could call the bus from there.

Bags in hand, Harry hurried down the block and ducked behind the petrol station. It was situated on an angled corner, and the street that made up the second side of the angle looked half-abandoned and more like an industrial park than the pleasant promenade he’d left behind. With another look around to ensure no one would notice, he pulled his wand from his front pocket and stuck it out before him.

Fortunately, he didn’t have long to wait. No more than a minute after he’d lifted his wand arm, an enormous _bang!_ filled the air and the purple, triple-decker bus slid into view. Harry dug put his wand away and dug in his rucksack for some sickles.

“Well then!” Stan exclaimed and pushed back the battered cap atop his head. He was still pimple-covered, Harry noticed in passing. “If it isn’t ‘Arry Potter.”

Harry startled and shot a look over his shoulder, as though expecting someone to leap from behind one of the pumps at Stan’s greeting. “Stan,” he greeted, and hurried onto the bus with his bags. “I need to get back to Surrey. And I’m in kind of a rush,” he explained, even as he grabbed for a pole with one hand when the bus lurched into motion.

“That’ll be ten sickles then, ‘arry Potter,” Stan announced, and once again Harry felt the need to look around for someone who might be watching the exchange. There was an old witch asleep in her chair at the back of the bus – no matter that it kept sliding around as the bus careened down the street – and Ernie was still driving, but it didn’t look like anyone on the first deck of the bus was paying them any mind. Harry shoved ten sickles into Stan’s outstretched hand and carefully made his way to one of the chairs. It was sliding around, but he managed to grab on and swing himself into it when the bus slowed down a hair to make a turn. After that he just hung on tight and while the bus raced out of Guildford and onto the highway toward Surrey. He just shook his head when Stan offered a hot chocolate and did his best not to pay too much attention to the way the bus weaved in and out of muggle traffic like a motorbike.

The bus stopped, once, to let off the old witch who’d been napping in the back, before it continued on its path to Privet Drive. Ernie took the final turn at what to Harry was a wildly unsafe speed – even for a quidditch player – and stopped with a final jerk in front of Number Four. Harry stumbled out of the bus with his bags and hurried toward the front door with a perfunctory goodbye to Ernie and Stan. Aunt Petunia’s Corsa was back in the driveway, and he swore quietly, then changed direction to hide behind the far side of the car. Quickly, he pulled his rucksack from his back and shoved the first bag of new clothes inside. They barely fit, and he took a calming breath before pulling the bag back out again to start over.

Eventually, Harry managed to fit all but his new socks into the rucksack, and those he pulled from their plastic packaging and shoved in his pockets. It looked odd, but maybe Aunt Petunia wouldn’t notice. The plastic Debenhams bags he shoved into the trash bin that was tucked into the corner where the garage met the house; hopefully no one would notice before the next trash day.

With a deep breath, Harry opened the front door as quietly as he could and stepped inside. He could hear Aunt Petunia in the living room watching the telly, although Vernon clearly wasn’t home from work yet; the clock in the hall showed that it was only half past four. Harry shut the door behind him and, when his aunt didn’t rush in, walked up stairs as quietly as he could. Shutting the door to his bedroom behind him, Harry emptied his pockets into his trunk, along with his rucksack.

* * *

The refrigerator was full to the brim from Aunt Petunia’s shopping trip, and Harry searched for the garlic for a good five minutes before it revealed itself behind another pile of grapefruit. The Dursleys’ weekly menu dictated that the evening meal was to be poached chicken with green bean salad and steamed cauliflower.

As he dropped smashed garlic cloves into a deep soup pot filled with raw chicken breast, bay leaves, and peppercorns, Harry tried not to listen to Vernon and Petunia arguing in the living room. It was something about the grocery bills again, and Harry had to stifle an eyeroll. Instead, he lit the gas stove and let the chicken poach while he filled two more pots with water to blanch the beans and steam the cauliflower.

When he judged the chicken to be fully cooked, Harry fished each piece out of the pot and patted them dry, then set them aside to cool. The cauliflower went into its pot next, held above the water by a metal steamer grate. The green beans he boiled until they were bright green and then dropped into a bowl of cold water. There was a dressing for those, and slivered almonds, Harry saw; it was just too bad that the dressing was one of those horrid fat free bottles made of chemicals and artificial flavourings.

Still, when the serving plates were on the table, Harry thought it made a decent enough meal. The chicken and cauliflower were so very _white_ , but the green beans were a brilliant spot of green in the middle of the table. He leaned into the living room, where Vernon and Petunia had subsided into an uncomfortable silence, and called quietly, “Dinner is ready.”

Harry wasn’t at all surprised when Vernon heaved his still-considerable bulk off of the sofa and shoved past him into the kitchen with a muttered, “It’s about time, boy.”

But when Petunia shoved by him and hissed, “I expect this kitchen to be _spotless_ by the time Vernon and I finish eating,” Harry startled and turned to face the woman who had, he thought, started to soften toward him. “You may eat after we are done,” Petunia sniffed, and turned her attention to serving Vernon a piece of the poached chicken.

“Oh, but I thought…”

“You thought _what?”_ The words were nearly a hiss, and Petunia’s glare was enough that Harry backtracked and muttered, “nothing” before returning to the kitchen. He cleaned up the pots and countertops as quietly as he could while the Dursleys ate, and when both his aunt and uncle had returned to the living room and turned the volume up on the telly, Harry saw that there were only a few cauliflower florets and three green beans left on the table. He ate those, and cleaned up the plates, but when he reached for a box of crackers in the pantry he heard Petunia clear her throat from the doorway.

“Go to your room,” his aunt demanded, and Harry stared at her.

 _But she’s – I thought,_ he stuttered to himself, as his thoughts ground to a halt. “It’s just – there wasn’t any chicken left, Aunt Petunia,” he explained, still frozen in the act of reaching into the open pantry.

“Your Uncle Vernon slaves just about enough to put food on the table for you. I _won’t_ have you taking any more! _Go._ ”

Harry slowly pulled his hand back from the shelf and closed the pantry door. “Yes, Aunt Petunia,” he muttered – and went, more puzzled than angry, up the stairs to his bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's an historical fact that when Queen Elizabeth II (then Princess Elizabeth) married following World War II, the fabric for her wedding dress was purchased with ration coupons. People around England sent her their coupons to help, but as it was illegal for the coupons to be given away, she had to return them.


	7. Interlude: St Mungo's Hospital

Hermione couldn’t quite understand why she hadn’t thought of going to St Mungo’s earlier in the summer. Perhaps she trusted Madame Pomfrey; perhaps she’d thought she just needed time to heal. Whatever it was, when even a trip to Madrid failed to lift her spirits and hasten her recovery (to the point where she’d needed to skip a trip to a famous museum due to her stomach troubles), her parents had put all four of their feet down and demanded she seek a second opinion.

That was why, on a grey, damp, yet excessively hot summer morning, Hermione allowed Dan Granger to drop her off in front of the condemned Purge and Dowse, Ltd. Department store. Her father gave the building a startled look as Hermione turned to shut the door, but then shook his head and drove away. She wondered what he’d seen – maybe he just didn’t believe that the building, with its dust-coated windows and graffitied walls, was a functioning hospital.

Hermione wasn’t entirely certain that she believed it, herself, though she’d been to the hospital before. She anxiously stepped through the plate glass window to her left and into the bustling, sparkling clean reception area.

A bored-looking brunette witch sat at the reception desk, and Hermione approached her with some trepidation. The loud sounds coming from the ward behind the reception area were making her jumpy, and she took a few breaths to try and slow her heartrate before nodding to the other witch in greeting. “I’m Hermione Granger, here for an appointment in the Spell Damage Ward,” she said quietly.

The receptionist waved a well-manicured hand towards the stairs on the right. “Go on up, Miss Granger. Talk to the receptionist at the top of the stairs.” Then she went back to reading the latest issue of _Witch Weekly_.

Hermione turned toward the stairs and repressed a groan. She’d slept the night through but already her limbs felt heavy and a bit sore. Firming her lips, Hermione set off toward the stairs and made her way up the wide, graduated flights as quickly as she could. As with her stairs at home, however, she had to stop several times; more than once she turned her face away with embarrassment as much older witches and wizards glided by her on their way up to the ward.

When she finally arrived at the top of the staircase several minutes later, Hermione looked around for the second receptionist to which the first had referred. From her position, the ward looked pure white and antiseptic, with nurses and healers hurrying in and out of doors that she supposed must lead to patients’ rooms. Out of the corner of her eye Hermione spotted a small desk, and she turned toward it purposefully.

There was a young woman sitting in an incongruously pink, overstuffed chair behind the desk. “May I help you?” she asked as Hermione approached. Her hair was as pink as the chair and done up in a bouffant that wouldn’t have been out of place in one of the old movies that Grandma Granger liked to watch, Hermione observed. She wondered why, in a ward otherwise designed for healing, such a germ-prone chair was permitted.

“Yes, I have an appointment – Hermione Granger,” Hermione finally replied.

The receptionist raked her eyes over Hermione’s form, and the younger witch felt her cheeks tighten in a flush. She knew what she must look like: panting, trying to hide the fact that there was a stitch in one side, and sweating from the walk up the stairs.

“First door on the left, then. Healer Alaunus will be with you shortly.”

Hermione obediently made her way to the appointment room and sat down in one of the two chairs that, unlike the receptionist’s, had no padding whatsoever. When no one appeared for several minutes, she removed a book from her purse, opened it to the place she’d bookmarked, and began to read.

She was halfway through a chapter on the destruction of magical cores when a harried-looking young man in sage-hued robes. The robes were stained in various places with substances that Hermione didn’t particularly wish to consider, and there was a long tear down the left side.

“Miss Granger,” the healer greeted, and Hermione put her book away with a nod. “I’m Healer Alaunus. What seems to be the trouble?” He pulled a long, ebony-hued wand from within his robes and gestured at the younger witch with an impatient hand.

Hermione’s brow furrowed slightly, but she took a slow breath. “I was hit with a dark curse several weeks ago, and while I have been receiving treatment from Madame Pomfrey at Hogwarts, I am still having…quite a lot of symptoms, actually. I’m not sure if I need more or different potions, or if perhaps something was missed.”

The healer offered her a brusque nod, causing a shock of blond hair to fall into his eyes. He waved his wand in her direction and a pale green light drifted over Hermione’s skin. “And what regimen has Madame Pomfrey prescribed?” he asked, as a thin tape spit out of his wand.

“Oh, I have it written here,” Hermione replied as she offered a slip of parchment. “It’s a combination of potions and a ginger tisane.”

Healer Alaunus took the parchment with two pinched fingers and scanned it briefly, then compared it with the writing on the wand tape. “Well, Miss Granger. Madame Pomfrey is using the agreed-upon protocol for the organ-crushing curse.” He eyed Hermione over the wand tape. “Stomach troubles, I see? Perhaps you ought to practice meditation, Miss Granger. I suspect you’re simply experiencing anxiety and women’s troubles.”

“Wo- women’s troubles?” Hermione repeated, an incredulous look on her face. “I haven’t experienced ‘women’s troubles’ for a single day of my life, Healer Alaunus. I’m experiencing severe cramping, nausea, vomiting, and fatigue. These symptoms are interfering with my life, sir.”

Healer Alaunus was still looking over the tape coming from his wand, and he waved a hand at Hermione in what seemed like a decidedly dismissive manner. “Side effects from the Blood Replenishing Potion, then. Drink more of the ginger tisane, Miss Granger. You’ll be just fine. Now, I have other patients to see. Speak with the receptionist on your way out for your bill.”

Before she could say another word, the healer swept from the room in a flurry of stained robes, leaving Hermione with her jaw hanging slightly open and the start of what she was certain would be a very bad headache.


	8. The Burrow

The night before his sixteenth birthday, Harry shot up in bed, panting. He pushed his hair back from his face and reached with a shaking hand for the spectacles on his nightstand. His latest nightmare, something he’d dreamed the last four nights running, was of Hermione falling through the Veil instead of Sirius. This last time, Harry had nearly succeeded in following her and his fingertips had just touched the frigid surface of the strange artefact before he woke.

A tapping sound interrupted the pounding of his heart, and Harry looked to his right to see an owl tapping at his window. Unlike the dignified owls from Gringotts, this one greatly resembled Errol, the clumsy owl on which the Weasleys had relied before Pig came into the picture.

Harry untangled himself from the sheet he’d been wrapped in, and shoved open the window as the owl waited. It settled on the sill and stuck its leg out a touch impatiently. He untied the rolled bit of parchment from around the bird’s leg and absently gave it a treat from Hedwig’s jar as he stepped away from the window to turn on the desk lamp. The green-shaded lamp tilted dangerously on a broken brass base; it was another Dursley hand-me-down, broken enough that Vernon didn’t want it anymore but good enough for Harry. The bulb still worked, however, and once he unrolled it, Harry was able to read the parchment in the lamp’s yellow light.

The parchment was a letter was from Dumbledore, and Harry looked out the window to see the old wizard standing on the road below. At least, Harry assumed the man outside was Dumbledore, based on the hat and robes; the wizard had found a way to turn all the street lights off, and so he was mostly a Dumbledore-shaped shadow. Harry was certain that the headmaster had also cast a spell or two to deter any muggles from paying attention.

With a sigh, Harry hurried back to his desk and penned a reply on the opposite side of the parchment. He tied it to the owl’s leg and watched as the bird swooped down to Dumbledore. He hoped those muggle-deterring spells covered owls as well, otherwise there would be questions for both of them when muggles started complaining about owls flying back and forth into Petunia Dursley’s windows.

After shutting the window, Harry changed from his pyjamas into one of his old pairs of jeans and one of Dudley’s old t-shirts. He didn’t want Dumbledore to know about his shopping trip, or show any evidence that he’d travelled to Gringotts. While he’d used his invisibility cloak to leave the house for both excursions, Dumbledore had an uncanny ability to pick up on the smallest hints of information. Harry wasn’t inclined to give him any, not after the wizard had apparently kept him in the dark for five years. Not for the first time, it occurred to him to wonder why the Order _hadn’t_ caught him during those trips. Maybe there was no one watching him after all. Or maybe it was Dumbledore’s doing.

A few minutes later, Harry’s trunk was packed, and he let Hedwig out of the window so that she could find her own way back to him. He left behind a fair amount of Dudley’s old clothes, but kept some as he knew that what he’d bought at the department store wouldn’t be enough to see him through the next year. He would have to figure out how to buy more. _I can buy clothes at Gladrags, or maybe Madame Malkin can owl some to me,_ he mused. There weren’t hordes of boys running around at Hogwarts in too-short robes and pants after growth spurts; surely he couldn’t be stopped from buying clothes in Hogsmeade.

As quietly as he could, Harry carried his trunk and Hedwig’s empty cage downstairs, wincing every time the heavy trunk knocked against a step. The teenager wondered why wizards insisted on using such old-fashioned luggage, instead of lighter suitcases like the muggles did. He’d asked that question of Hermione once, and the girl had told him that adult wizards just used magic and viewed dragging a trunk to Hogwarts as a rite of passage. She’d also called it another small way that the purebloods showed their disdain for the muggleborn.

Finally, Harry closed the door of Privet Drive behind him and nodded at Dumbledore. “Professor,” he greeted neutrally. He still wasn’t quite sure what to think of the revelations he’d experienced at Gringotts. In fact, Harry wasn’t sure what to think of his entire life with the Dursleys. Now that he knew how much was in his trust fund, he wondered why Dumbledore hadn’t seen to it that he received proper clothing, especially once he arrived at Hogwarts.

Oh, Hagrid had helped him buy uniforms and robes that first year, but Harry had been wearing a mix of Dudley’s castoffs, Mrs Weasley’s Christmas sweaters, and clothes from the lost-and-found bin for the last five years. Mrs Weasley had put herself in charge of buying his school supplies, but other than the requisite uniforms, she’d never purchased clothing for him. Granted, he’d never told the woman that he needed new clothes…but she’d raised seven children. Hadn’t she guessed?

Harry wondered, too, why the Dursleys had – until Aunt Petunia’s sudden change of heart and just as sudden reversal – begrudged him every bite of food he ate and every inch of space he took up in their home. Wouldn’t his parents have provided for him somehow, if they’d gone to the trouble of setting up an entire trust vault?

“Harry, my boy,” Albus Dumbledore greeted, interrupting Harry’s train of thought. He seemed not to notice the boy’s mood, but simply cast a wandless shrinking charm on his trunk and Hedwig’s cage. With a shrug, Harry tucked both into his pocket and walked alongside Dumbledore as the older wizard turned away from Number Four and started up the street. “How has your summer been?”

Harry looked at Dumbledore from the corner of one eye, suspicious of the question. “The same as every summer, Headmaster. Though I did learn how to play these neat muggle things called video games.” He thought that might entertain the older man. After all, he was less obvious about it than Arthur Weasley, but Harry had noticed more than once Dumbledore’s fascination with muggle devices.

Dumbledore nodded genially. “Video games?” he inquired. “You’ll have to tell me about them, Harry. But we are on a schedule – are you ready to travel to the Burrow?” At Harry’s nod, Dumbledore held out his arm. “Hold on, then, Harry. We’ll be Apparating.”

When Harry grabbed onto Dumbledore’s arm, the world tilted and suddenly it felt like he was being squeezed through a tube. His head felt as though it was wrapped in a vice, and for a moment he thought he might vomit. _Why do wizards have such terrible transportation methods?_ he lamented as the world disappeared. As the _crack_ of their apparition echoed down Privet Drive, the street lamps lit up in unison and shone warmly on the dark pavement below. Later, the electric company would blame the incident on a power surge.

When the sensation stopped, the two wizards were half a mile from the Burrow, which Harry could just barely see as a tall, tilting shadow in the darkness. As Dumbledore began to walk in that direction, Harry followed.

“Miss Granger arrived earlier this evening, although I expect that she and Mr Weasley have long since gone to sleep,” Dumbledore explained as they walked. “I understand that she and her parents travelled to Spain, last week.” He paused, and looked at Harry closely. “How _are_ you and Miss Granger getting on, Harry?”

Harry startled, as Dumbledore stopped walking, and looked up at the older wizard. “Oh, well enough,” he demurred. “I haven’t heard much from Hermione this summer, but if she’s been in Spain, I suppose that explains it.”

Dumbledore nodded, although he looked Harry in the eyes as he did so. A tingle ran its way up Harry’s spine, but all the older man said was, “Yes, sometimes even the best owls have trouble locating someone when they are out of the country.”

They kept walking, and to pass the time – and keep the headmaster from asking any more personal questions – Harry found himself explaining to Dumbledore just what a video game was. The old wizard seemed intrigued by the idea, and entertained by Harry’s explanation of an Italian plumber riding a friendly green dinosaur.

A few minutes later, they arrived at the gate to the Burrow. In the dark, it seemed even stranger to him than when he’d last visited, and perhaps even more likely to topple over. Still, he managed to smile at Molly and Arthur when they opened the door to let him and Dumbledore into the house.

“Oh, Harry,” Molly exclaimed softly. “It’s so _good_ to see you! You get right up to bed, dear, and we’ll talk in the morning. I’ll make a nice, big breakfast for you,” she promised. Harry just nodded, and Arthur quickly ushered him into Bill’s old room so that Harry could get back to sleep. The older man unshrunk Harry’s trunk and Hedwig’s cage, and Harry left the window open so that Hedwig could find him. He could hear Molly and Dumbledore speaking in low tones downstairs, but couldn’t make out what they were saying.

Finally, he changed back into his pyjamas and curled up on the bed, hoping that the nightmares wouldn’t follow him all the way to Ottery St. Catchpole. He was asleep before Dumbledore passed the door of the bedroom and opened it just slightly. He waved a hand in Harry’s direction before walking back downstairs. A pale green glow wrapped around Harry and sunk into his skin after a moment. Harry rolled over and gave a soft snort in his sleep.

* * *

When Harry woke the next morning, Hedwig was perched in her cage and sunlight was shining through the open window. He blinked, blearily, and then remembered that today, he was sixteen years old. He clambered out of bed and dug through his trunk for clean clothing, then made his way to the loo. For once he didn’t have any competition, and it didn’t take long for Harry to shower and dress in a new pair of jeans and a heather blue shirt.

When he clambered downstairs a few minutes later, he saw that Hermione, too, was awake. His cheeks heated as he remembered one particular dream, so very different from most of the nightmares he’d had over the last several weeks. Still, he casually made his way from the stairs into the living room, where Hermione was curled up on the sofa and reading a book. She was thinner than she’d been when they got off the train in London a month earlier, and her eyes were shadowed as though she hadn’t gotten enough sleep. Crookshanks was tucked up against her side, and the cat’s eyes blinked open to stare at Harry. When the boy just stood there, the cat blinked at him, once, and then curled up more tightly.

Harry watched Hermione read for a while, his chest tight and his throat even tighter. Seeing her whole set his eyes to burning and he thought he might choke on the pressure of the thing rising up inside of him. The bright morning sunlight picked up the natural blonde and copper highlights in her brunette hair, hair that slid down her back in soft waves. She wore a pretty cerulean sundress of a fabric so soft-looking that Harry immediately wanted to touch it. It wasn’t cut to reveal, but the fabric fell in folds that emphasized the curve of her chest and hips. He was reminded of the periwinkle dress robes she’d worn to that disastrous Yule Ball, when she’d shown all of Hogwarts – and parts of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang – that Hermione Granger was a girl. _A gorgeous girl,_ Harry admitted to himself. His cheeks heated again as he watched her lean forward.

As Hermione shifted, the high neckline of her dress dropped down and the top of a jagged scar revealed itself. Harry’s entire body turned ice cold; the scar was still an angry crimson and looked barely-healed. _It’s because of me_ , he thought. _She has that scar because of me_. _She nearly died. It’s my fault. **It’s my fault.**_

Over the sudden thundering in his ears, Harry couldn’t even hear Ron approaching. The taller boy came down the stairs from behind Harry, feet pounding the creaky wood even though he was barefoot. “Harry, mate!” he greeted, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Happy birthday! When’d you get here?” Harry barely stopped himself from yelping as Ron’s greeting shoved him out of his thoughts – and nearly off of his feet, for that matter.

The redhead’s voice stirred Hermione from her book, and she looked up at both boys with a smile. “Harry!” she greeted. She placed a bookmark in the tome she’d been reading and closed it, then rose slowly from her place on the sofa. She crossed the living room to hug him, although it wasn’t like the hugs he’d remembered, when she’d thrown herself at him and clung as though they’d never see each other again. This was more decorous, like a hug from someone he didn’t know very well. “Happy birthday! You’re looking well. And that’s a nice shirt,” she admired.

Before Harry could draw her closer, Hermione pulled away and leaned up to give Ron a kiss on the cheek. Ron wrapped an arm around the girl, and Harry felt another cold wave travel through his body. “I – I got in last night,” he stammered as Hermione stood in Ron’s embrace. “Dumbledore brought me late – middle of the night, really.”

Hermione smiled, although it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Well, I’m glad you’re here, now,” she said. “Our OWL results arrived yesterday, and now we can open them!”

“Sure,” Harry agreed, although he was still watching his two best friends. Ron was looking at Hermione as though she’d announced that they were going to Honeyduke’s or Zonko’s, and Hermione was still smiling with those nearly-empty brown eyes. 

A few minutes later, the trio was sitting at the kitchen table, each with an envelope. “You first, Mione,” Ron invited, and Hermione opened her envelope. She read over the results quickly, sighing in relief. “Ten,” she announced. “Ten OWLS!” She set aside the supply list, and a Prefect badge fell out. “And Prefect, again.”

“That’s great, Hermione!” Harry enthused. He opened his next, scanning first his OWL results – he’d achieved seven – and then his Hogwarts letter. He expected Ron to be made Prefect again, but when the silver captain’s badge fell out of his letter he palmed it carefully.

“Team captain? That’s great, mate!” Ron exclaimed. He opened his letter last, unsurprised to find the silver Prefect badge and a total of seven OWLs. “And seven OWLS for me as well!”

Hermione couldn’t hide a frown of disappointment, and Harry looked at her curiously. She caught him at it and stammered, “It’s just – I didn’t achieve an “O” in Defence,” she claimed.

Ron shrugged. “What would you need that for, Mione? So long as you passed, right?” He turned to Harry for agreement.

“I could have had _eleven OWLs_ , Ron,” Hermione replied, and in a stark contrast to the way she’d let him hold her earlier, she shifted away from him. “It must have been the practical. I was _certain_ I had everything right on the written exam,” she muttered.

Harry reached over and covered Hermione’s hand with his. “It’s still good enough to get into NEWT-level Defence, Hermione,” he reassured. “And you still have _ten_ OWLs! I bet that’s more than anyone else in the year.” He noticed the way Ron was eyeing his hand on Hermione’s, and withdrew it with a pang of regret.

“Anyway,” he said hastily. “There’s something I need to tell you two. It’s about Volde—“ Harry broke off as the twins and Ginny clattered into the kitchen, followed by Molly Weasley.

“Harry! You’re here!” Ginny cried enthusiastically, and as Harry got up to greet the newly-arrived Weasleys, she threw her arms around him. It was almost as if she was trying to hug him the way Hermione usually did – but instead of feeling warm and welcomed, Harry’s skin crawled. He extricated himself as politely as he could and turned to Molly, who nearly crushed him, before the twins slapped his back in as _manfully_ a way as possible. Harry shot his two best friends a look that meant _later_ before sitting back down at the table to watch Mrs Weasley cook breakfast.

Later turned out to be _much_ later – the twins wanted to show off their latest inventions, and then Ginny wanted to play a pick-up game of quidditch. No one but Harry seemed to notice that would leave out Hermione, but when she waved at them all to “Go ahead, I’ll watch,” he reluctantly retrieved his firebolt and joined Ron, Ginny, and the twins.

There weren’t enough of them for a full team, and so Ginny and Harry faced off against Ron and George as chasers, leaving Fred to play the beater position for _both_ teams. It was a fun game, if a strange one, to watch Fred beat a single bludger away from first one and then the other team. But they wiled away a few hours as Hermione sat in the grass below, reading her book and occasionally cheering on one or the other set of chasers.

The four Weasleys and Harry played for nearly three hours before calling it quits; when Harry landed he tried not to stare at Hermione, who was nearly asleep – it wasn’t even two o’clock! He hung back when Ron bounded up and woke her, pulling her into the house with an arm around her waist and her book forgotten. It was Harry who carried the book back inside; he gave Ginny an apologetic smile when she tried to talk to him and he turned away. Not more than five minutes later it was him turning away from the sight of Ron and Hermione, who were kissing at the top of the stairs.

When Hermione suddenly pushed Ron away and hurried down the hall, however, Harry’s chest tightened, and he saw red. Bounding up the stairs, he glared at Ron as the redhead ran a hand through his sweaty hair. “Bloody hell, Ron! What did you do to Hermione?” Harry demanded, her book still clutched in one hand and his broom in the other.

Ron startled and shook his head. “She kissed _me_ , mate! I think she’s just – y’know, girls play hard to get sometimes.”

“Hard to – she _ran away_ from you!” Harry glared at Ron, daring him to explain himself, but after all it was just a kiss.

“I dunno, mate, she’s a _girl._ They just do that, right?”

Harry pushed past Ron with a snort and poked his head into Hermione’s room. She was sitting on the bed, looking calm enough. He placed the book next to her and crouched in front of her. Hermione’s face was placid, although her lips were a little swollen. “Alright there, Hermione?” he asked carefully.

His words startled the brunette out of her thoughts and she flushed, giving Harry a little nod. “Yes, yes of course. I’m just a little tired. I think I’ll take a nap before dinner.” She paused, and patted Harry’s shoulder. “Thanks for checking on me, Harry – but I’m fine, really.”

“You and Ron, then? You’re...?” Harry couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. The weight in his chest made him want to look around for a Dementor, but he just kept himself still, watching Hermione.

Hermione smiled again, and a flash of anguish slid through her eyes before they emptied out, as though the shades were pulled down on the windows of a house. “O- oh, yes, we’re alright, Harry. He didn’t upset me. Now, I’d just like to take that nap.”

Thus dismissed, Harry stood and closed the door behind him as he left the room. There was something in the way Hermione had looked at him – something in the way she hadn’t said that she and Ron were _together_ , but that he hadn’t _upset_ her _._ He couldn’t help but think something was wrong.

Harry shook his head and went back to Bill’s old room for a clean set of clothes.


	9. You're a What?

Mrs Weasley had prepared a veritable feast for Harry’s birthday dinner, and the orange-scented vanilla birthday cake for pudding was delicious. Harry sat back with his tea and sighed happily, the odd interaction with Hermione earlier nearly forgotten in the glow of his friends and Mrs Weasley’s cooking.

“Presents, then?” Arthur Weasley asked with a grin. “Go on, then, Harry.” The older man offered a small box to Harry, but the twins beat him to it.

“Open ours first, Harry,” Fred and George chorused as they pushed a large box across the cleared-off kitchen table.

The tips of Harry’s ears burned at being the centre of attention, but he obediently tore the metallic blue wrapping paper from the box to find that underneath the wrapping, the sizeable wooden box was labelled _Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes Deluxe Box of Pranks_. Etched into the wood were stylised images of Ton-Tongue Toffees, Fanged Flyers, and other items sold in the shop. “Oh, wow. Thank you both!” he exclaimed, even as Hermione muttered something about breaking the rules and Ron snorted.

“There’s a few _special_ items in there as well, Harry,” Fred explained.

“Things we don’t sell in the shop,” George continued, “We think they’ll be helpful, especially—"

“Against Old Moldyshorts,” Fred finished.

“Now boys, I don’t think Harry needs to worry about such things while he’s at _school_ ,” Molly cautioned. “Dumbledore has assured your father and I that Hogwarts is the safest place you could possibly be.”

Harry and George shared a sceptical look at that, but before either could comment, Ginny pushed a small, wrapped present in Harry’s direction. “Open mine next, Harry,” she requested with a shy smile.

Obediently, Harry unwrapped the second present, and beamed happily at the girl. “Oh, smashing! I was just about out of these,” he said as he looked over the broomstick polish and quidditch armour repair kit. “Thanks, Ginny.”

There were quidditch gloves from Ron, and the box from Mr and Mrs Weasley turned out to contain both Mrs Weasley’s delicious fudge and a wand holster. “It goes ‘round your forearm like so, Harry,” Mr Weasley explained as his wife looked on with a hint of disapproval. “Safer than keeping your wand in your back pocket while at school.”

Finally, Harry got to Hermione’s gift, which didn’t feel at all like a book or something from _Quality Quidditch Supplies._ Indeed, when the wrapping paper was gone he was holding a truly handsome leather rucksack. It was deep brown, darker in colour than Mrs Weasley’s fudge, and soft to the touch.

“It’s been charmed,” Hermione explained as her cheeks flushed. “I did it before – before we left Hogwarts for the summer. “It will never feel too heavy, and it’s bigger on the inside than it is outside.”

Harry’s jaw dropped just a little. He knew what such a bag would cost – he’d seen them in Madam Malkin’s – and that was with just the featherlight charms. “Hermione, this is…” He caught the reddening of Ron’s ears and cleared his throat. “Thanks. This’ll be perfect for all my books this school year,” he finished.

It wasn’t until long after dinner that Harry had another chance to get Hermione and Ron alone. It was Hermione who noticed his meaningful look and glance toward the door, but the two followed him outside to a tree not far from the house. In the moonlight Hermione was even paler, and she moved more slowly than Harry could ever remember, but she gamely sat on the grass beneath a tree and leaned against its trunk. Ron dropped to one side of her, and Harry sat opposite them both.

“There’s something you wanted us to know,” she prompted, gaze fixed on Harry. “Something about You Know Who.”

Harry stayed silent for a moment. Dumbledore had encouraged him to tell Ron and Hermione. That was before the letter from Gringotts – before he found out that Dumbledore was keeping him, either deliberately or due to forgetfulness, from knowing anything about his magical heritage. Finally, he said, “Dumbledore told me what the prophecy said. What Trelawney said about me and Voldemort. She said I’m the only one who can kill him.”

Ron shuddered at the name, but Hermione just stared at Harry intently. “What did she say, _exactly_ , Harry?” she asked.

“She said… ‘The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not…and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives’. Dumbledore said it could’ve been about me or Neville – but Voldemort tried to kill _me_ ,” Harry said evenly.

“So that meant the prophecy was about you – because he chose to go after you. When did Professor Dumbledore tell you this?” Hermione’s eyebrows were raised and even in the dark, Harry swore it looked like her eyes were flashing fire. Ron’s jaw had dropped, and he was shaking his head, but he stayed silent.

“The night after Sirius died.”

“He told – he told you – after you’d just watched your godfather die and while most of us were still in the hospital wing. He told you _then_?” The sudden venom in her voice seemed to shock Hermione as much as it did the two boys, and she lapsed into silence.

“Well yeah, but I guess I always knew, Hermione. Voldemort has come after me every year. It’s what Dumbledore _didn’t_ tell me that I need to tell you both.”

The two perked up at that, and Ron leaned forward. “There’s more?” he asked. “About the prophecy?”

Harry shook his head in the negative. “No, it’s about my family.” He looked between the two of them. “Before Sirius…died…he made up a will and filed it with the bank. Last month the goblins demanded I come to the bank so they could tell me what was in the will. And – Sirius named me the Head of the House of Black.”

Hermione just looked at Harry, her brow furrowed, but Ron’s jaw dropped again. “ _Head_ of the house? Blimey, Harry, House Black is…” He stopped, suddenly, and shook his head a little. “Well, they’re an _old_ House.”

“Ancient and Noble,” Harry agreed, “And so is the House of Potter. Something that Dumbledore didn’t tell me – along with the fact that I could have claimed Head of House status by now.”

“Being Head of a wizard household is… _important,_ Harry,” Hermione said. She was looking at him closely, eyes livelier than they’d been since before Dolohov had cursed her. “I’ll have to do some research, but – I think you should claim them both, if you can.” She paused. “It might help defeat You Know Who. And even if it doesn’t, maybe something from Sirius’ vault will help?”

“Vaults,” Harry corrected. His heart lifted to hear Hermione’s enthusiasm, to hear her offer to (what else?) research the matter. His Hermione was back. Even if she wasn’t really _his_ , by the way Ron was looking at her. And that thought sent his heart sinking again. “Sirius didn’t just leave me his vault – he left me the Black family vaults. And my mum and dad had one too. Dumbledore didn’t tell me that either. Made the goblins right mad when they found out.”

Ron crossed his arms. “So you’re rich?” he guessed, and couldn’t quite keep the accusatory tone from his voice. “More than you already were, I mean.”

Harry shrugged, shifting uncomfortably. He felt his ears burning, although he hoped neither of the others could see. “I guess. The goblins asked me to come back before school starts. They want to go over everything, including the, ah, properties. The Blacks had a few, apparently.”

“Well of _course_ you need to go back to Gringotts.” Hermione was sitting up again. “I’m sure there’s a reason Professor Dumbledore didn’t want you to know about this, but – you should know about your heritage, and maybe there really _is_ something in one of the vaults that will help. Weapons, or books of spells. Maybe even another invisibility cloak!”

“Mum’s going to take us to Diagon Alley in a few days for our books and things,” Ron offered, and if he sounded tense, Harry was willing to ignore it to avoid sparking the other wizard’s temper. “But you’re going to have to tell her why you need to spend time at the bank,” he pointed out. “And she’ll want to tell Dumbledore.”

“I don’t want Dumbledore to know. He’s the one who kept this all from me.” Harry groaned and leaned back against the tree. “What if I just say that the goblins want to talk about Sirius’ will again? Malfoy _did_ threaten to contest the will because of the Head of House stuff.”

“He did _what_?” Hermione exclaimed. “How does he even know?”

The question prompted Harry to explain how Draco and Narcissa Malfoy had been at the reading of the will, and how his mother had threatened to bring solicitors into the picture. “My solicitor doesn’t think the Malfoys have a case, since the Wizengamot won’t want to interfere with the rights of wizards to name their heirs. But…” Harry shrugged. “It’s Malfoy.”

“We’ll tell mum you need to talk to the goblins about Sirius’ will,” Ron decided. “She’ll tell Dumbledore anyway, but if you tell her when we’re in the alley already she won’t be able to floo him about it in time for him to stop you.”

With the decision made, and Hermione obviously beginning to tire, the trio returned to the Burrow to get some sleep. Harry tried to ignore the way Ron and Hermione were holding hands on the walk back.

* * *

Four days later, Molly Weasley gathered Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny in the living room. To Harry’s surprise, Remus was also present. “Dumbledore thought you could use an extra hand, what with all that’s going on,” he explained when the trio offered puzzled looks to their former Defence teacher. “So I’ll be accompanying you to Diagon Alley to make sure you’re all safe and well-equipped for the new school year.”

Harry grimaced; it would be difficult enough to get past Mrs Weasley. Explaining himself to Remus – and explaining why Sirius had apparently left his friend out of his will – wasn’t appealing at all.

Still, he stood by the fireplace with his friends and watched as Remus flooed to Diagon Alley first. At Mrs Weasley’s instruction, the four teenagers followed, one at a time, and she served as the rear-guard.

Mrs Weasley chivvied all four of her charges through the Leaky Cauldron and out to the magical brick wall quickly; once they were through the barrier and into the alley, Harry tried to make his escape, claiming that he needed to see the goblins about Sirius’ will.

“We don’t really have time for that, Harry,” Mrs Weasley explained, her voice sweet even as she hurried the group along towards Flourish & Blotts. “Remus has volunteered his time today and will need to get back to Number Twelve as soon as we’re done here. Besides, it’s not really _safe_ to go off on your own, now is it?” Her words ended on a whisper; Diagon Alley was nearly deserted, more so than it had been when Harry visited the previous month.

“But Mrs Weasley,” Harry objected, “Ripnok asked me to come see him _as soon as possible_. And we’re here in Diagon Alley now-” 

“And we have a _schedule_ , Harry. Surely you understand. Now, Ginny, darling, do you have your book list? Yes?” Mrs Weasley pulled Harry into the book shop with her, ignoring the way he flinched, while Ron, Hermione, and Ginny followed behind. Ron and Hermione exchanged concerned looks, but Ron just shrugged and pulled out his own book list.

While Ginny picked up a copy of _Defensive Magical Theory,_ Harry and Ron quickly gathered up the set of books they would need for the year. Harry hadn’t achieved an O in Potions, so he skipped _Advanced Potion-Making_ but made sure to get a copy of _Confronting the Faceless._ He watched Hermione follow behind him more slowly; she lacked the pile of extra books that she normally gathered whenever they were in a library or bookstore. _But then,_ he thought, _Mrs Weasley said we were in a hurry. Maybe Hermione’s just listening to her._

“Are you ready?” Ginny asked suddenly from Harry’s left. He turned, and she smiled up at him, eyes wide. She’d done something to them, he thought – her eyelashes were long and curled, and there was shiny brown dust on top of her eyelids. It looked like she’d done something to her cheeks, too – they were pinker than usual.

 _She’s wearing makeup, you idiot_ , he thought. There were other girls at Hogwarts who’d started wearing the stuff last year, but he was surprised Mrs Weasley had let Ginny out of the house with it. He caught a whiff of something sweet and floral, but before he could identify the scent it faded. “Y-yeah,” Harry finally responded, and followed her up to the front of the store, where the owner was totalling up Hermione’s purchases.

Even after a full night’s sleep – and sleeping late, at that, as she was the last one downstairs for breakfast – there were purple smudges beneath Hermione’s eyes. As she turned, her pile of purchases in her hands, she swayed and might have fallen if not for Ron grabbing her arm.

Harry started forward, but Ginny spoke up again beside him: “Oh, Harry, would you mind holding these?” she asked in a sweet tone. “I just need to find my galleons in my purse.” He found himself holding a second set of books while Ginny dug around in the purple beaded bag hanging from one shoulder. She’d done something to her hair, too, he noticed: it was shiny and smoother than usual. The scent tickled his nose again, and he sneezed. Perhaps someone in the bookstore was wearing perfume.

Finally, he handed Ginny’s set of books over to the store manager, and Ginny paid for them with a pair of galleons. She tucked her change away while Harry paid for his set, and then smiled up at him shyly. “Shall we go to Madam Malkin’s?” she asked.

Ginny’s free arm slid through his, and Harry flushed at the contact. Something tightened in his chest, suddenly, and a shiver slid down his spine; this was something only _Hermione_ did. But Hermione was following Ron out of the bookshop, books in her hands, and though she wasn’t holding Ron’s hand she was closer to him than usual. The same shiver slid its way back up his spine, and Harry felt he had no choice: he let Ginny drag him outside and then into Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions.

As Harry waited on a bench inside the shop, the sweet scent tickled his nose again. He and Ron had gallantly offered to allow Hermione and Ginny to be measured for new robes and uniforms first, but Ginny hung back with him while Hermione was being measured. In fact, Ginny was really _quite_ close, although Harry didn’t say anything. The scent was coming from her, he realized.

“Well, you’ve gained five centimetres in height, but you’ve lost nearly six centimetres around your hips and waist and about half that around your chest since last summer, young lady,” Madam Malkin announced. Harry heard the words even though Hermione and the seamstress were hidden behind a privacy curtain. He didn’t catch Hermione’s reply, but Madam Malkin’s statement confirmed that he was right to think that his friend was thinner.

A delicate chime sounded at the front of the shop, and Harry turned his head to see Draco Malfoy and his mother enter. The Slytherin was wearing another perfectly-tailored black suit, and Narcissa Malfoy had on another elegant black summer robe. _She must have cast cooling charms on it,_ he thought. Though the London summer wasn’t unbearable, he was warm even in a short-sleeve shirt. He groaned and looked for a more inconspicuous spot: given the threat of a lawsuit, both Martin Armitage and Ripnok had warned him not to speak with anyone from the Malfoy family if he could help it.

Unfortunately, whatever legal advice Draco had received, he didn’t seem inclined to take it seriously. “Oh, it’s the Weasel and _Potter_ ,” he drawled. Hermione was just coming around from behind the privacy screen, and he turned his sneer on her as well. “And the mud- and _Granger_ ,” he corrected. “Did you tell them, Potter?” he demanded, and his eyes stared at Harry. “Did you tell them that you’re stealing the Black fortune?”

The words were harsh, but behind them Harry saw the shadows under Malfoy’s eyes and the way Narcissa Malfoy tried to hush him. “Sirius was my godfather,” Harry replied as calmly as he could. “And I recommend that if you have objections, you direct them through Gringotts or Mr Armitage, as he already instructed.” His heart beat faster and he looked toward Hermione, whose cheeks were flushed with anger. Even if Draco hadn’t finished the word, they all knew what he’d meant to call Hermione.

“Hiding behind a _solicitor_ , now?” Draco taunted. “First Dumbledore, then Sirius Black – who _won’t_ you hide behind?” But he glanced down at his mother. “Perhaps Twilfitt and Tattings, mother?”

In a sweep of dark fabric, the two were gone, and Harry let out a breath. Ginny, however, was staring at him, and he didn’t care for the gleam in her eye. Draco had given up his needling far too easily – maybe because Sirius had left him something in that trust vault? – but that thought fought for dominance with one about Ginny’s look as she shifted closer to him and _batted her eyelashes_. It made Harry uncomfortable and he stood quickly. “I’ll go next, I think,” he announced, even as Ron opened his mouth to say something.

When all four teenagers had been fitted for new robes and uniforms – Harry had shot up three centimetres, himself – they left Madam Malkin’s and Ron pulled them along to Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes.

“We don’t have time, Ronald,” Mrs Weasley objected, but allowed herself to be cajoled into Fred and George’s store. Harry wasn’t surprised: they were her sons, after all. Ginny followed as well at Ron’s statement that perhaps their brothers would give them free stuff. Harry and Hermione turned to do the same, but Harry caught a flash of blond hair out of the corner of one eye: it was Draco, without his mother, walking into Knockturn Alley.

Harry frowned; Draco couldn’t be up to anything _good_ , even if he’d backed off quickly at Madam Malkin’s. “I’m going to follow him,” he whispered to Hermione.

“Harry, _no_ ,” Hermione objected, although her voice wasn’t as strident as usual. “You’ll get caught, and anyway Mrs Weasley will see that you’re missing!”

“I’ll use my cloak. I’ll just be a minute.” Harry gave her hand a squeeze and slipped away, leaving the brunette to watch him with frustration for a moment. Finally, though, she gave a huff and followed him. She ignored his self-satisfied look when she reached his side and he threw the cloak – pulled from his rucksack – over both of them. With Harry and Hermione both having grown, it was hard to cover their feet and still stand up straight, but they silently crept behind Draco as he entered Borgin & Burkes.

The two watched through grimy windows as the other wizard exchanged words with the shop’s owner. Draco looked strangely reluctant, and _very_ nervous: his eyes kept darting around and he looked out the window, seemingly directly at Harry and Hermione although they knew that he couldn’t see them under the cloak.

Finally, Draco exchanged several galleons for a package, and left the shop. Harry made to follow him, but Hermione shook her head and grabbed onto his arm. “We have to get back,” she whispered. Harry opened his mouth to object, but his friend looked so pale all of a sudden that he just grunted in agreement. He wrapped an arm lightly around her waist, just to keep the cloak on them both, he told himself. Slowly they made their way out of Knockturn Alley and back to the front of the Weasleys’ shop.

Harry waited until they were inside the shop, between two displays that hid them from the other shoppers, before removing the cloak and tucking it away again. “He’s planning something,” he said without preamble. “We need to find out what he bought.”

“Oi! Have you two found anything?” called Ron before Hermione could reply. “Mum wants us to get--”

“Ron,” Harry interrupted. “Draco just bought something at Borgin and Burkes. I think he’s planning something. His family’s angry about the Gringotts stuff.”

That seemed to be the wrong thing to say, as Ron’s eyes darted back and forth between his two friends. “Did you two follow him without me?” he demanded.

“Harry spotted him when you were already in the store,” Hermione defended. “We thought your mum would notice if we came in and rushed you back out.”

“So you were under the invisibility cloak _together_ and happened to see Draco buy something? Is that _really_ what happened?”

Harry looked at Hermione. The girl was openly confused, although her cheeks were just starting to heat with a blush. “Yes, yes that’s what _really_ happened, Ronald. Malfoy might have been buying something to – to hurt Harry, because of the Black vaults! Maybe he thinks Harry will give it all back, or that it will go to him if he- if Harry—” Hermione’s voice broke.

“So you think Malfoy’s after you because you’re _rich_?” Ron asked, and both Harry and Hermione heard the anger building in his tone.

“It’s because the Malfoys want the money for _Voldemort_ ,” Harry hissed. “Sirius left Draco some kind of trust fund but it must not be enough for them.”

“It’s because you’re rich, then,” Ron repeated. “And Sirius left money to a _death eater_?” His voice rose in volume until Hermione hushed him, although she didn’t object to his words.

“I guess Sirius thought…well, I don’t know what he was thinking, but there must have been a reason,” Harry objected. “Maybe it was something he couldn’t _undo_ , from years ago.”

“So he made both you _and_ Malfoy rich.” Ron’s ears were even redder, now, and so was the rest of his face; in fact, his skin was nearly as red as his hair, and his freckles stood out as brown spots against his ruddy skin.

“I’m ‘rich’ because Sirius and my parents _died_ , Ron,” Harry retorted. “Believe me, I’d rather have my godfather than the money.” His cheeks felt tight and he had to swallow past something in his throat. Hermione wasn’t saying anything, and he looked to her, upset that she would stay silent when she’d always defended him before, but she was leaning against the nearest display, face bloodlessly pale and lips thin, as if she was fighting nausea.

“Hermione – why don’t we get back to the Burrow?” he said suddenly, and gave Ron a significant look. The redhead’s face darkened with renewed anger, but he looked at their friend as well, and gave a short nod.

“Fine, but we’re still talking about this later,” Ron said. Harry just nodded distractedly and pulled Hermione toward him. When the brunette swayed, he wrapped an arm around her waist to hold her up. For a split second he enjoyed the warmth of her in his arms, but dismissed the thought immediately. _What are you thinking, Potter? Can’t you see she’s clearly unwell?_ he asked himself.

“Can you find your mum and Remus?” Harry asked. “And Ginny,” he added. “I know your mum will want us all to floo back together.”

Ron cast an angry look at Harry’s arm, but then his eyes found Hermione’s face and he hurried off to find the others.

“I’m – I’m fine, Harry,” Hermione said quietly. “I’m just a little tired.” She swayed again, and Harry shook his head.

“You look like you’re about to pass out, Hermione. We need to get you back to the Burrow.” In the back of his head alarm bells were ringing. There was definitely something _wrong_. “You should see Madam Pomfrey when we get back to Hogwarts,” he said, and grunted when Hermione started to shake her head in denial. “Please, Hermione?”

Hermione shrugged, but she nodded her head and sent her hair flying momentarily. “Alright, Harry. If it’s important to you, I’ll talk to Madam Pomfrey. But I think she’ll just say the same thing as St Mungo’s…”

Ron returned just then, with Molly Weasley in tow, and the woman fussed over Hermione, pulling her from Harry.

He trailed after Ron, Hermione, and Mrs Weasley toward the front of the store. He barely turned his head when Ginny turned up at his side again, and just sneezed once more when her perfume tickled his nose. He’d have to ask Hermione what the girl was using – maybe he was allergic to it. Harry didn’t even notice when the youngest Weasley offered up a disappointed sigh and followed the rest of the family through the floo.


	10. Jealousy and Lemonade

When the Weasleys, Harry, Hermione, and Remus arrived back at the Burrow, Mrs Weasley and Ginny hurried Hermione into Ginny’s bedroom, which the two girls were sharing. That left Remus, Harry, and Ron to wait in awkward silence in the Weasleys’ living room. Ron grabbed a magazine from the side of the couch and sat down to read, while Harry watched Remus. The older wizard smiled tiredly at Harry but didn’t say anything as he dropped onto a cushion on the other side of the couch.

In the bedroom, Mrs Weasley chivvied Hermione out of the summer robes she’d been wearing while Ginny put away both girls’ books. “Did you take your potions today? Yes? Well, then you just have a lie-down and I’ll bring in some tea,” Mrs Weasley said, and pulled her wand from a pocket in her robes.

While her mum cast a basic diagnostic spell on Hermione, Ginny measured her robes against Hermione’s. Hers were longer, as she was taller than the older girl by several centimetres, but Hermione’s woollen robes were larger around the chest even with the witch’s apparent weight loss. Ginny quickly tucked Hermione’s robes into the side of the closet reserved for the brunette while her mother was still occupied.

“Hmm. Have you been sleeping?” Mrs Weasley asked as she turned down the covers of Hermione’s bed.

Hermione grimaced, but she obediently climbed into the bed as ordered. With hands that shook only a little, she fluffed her pillow so that she could sit up against the headboard. “Oh, yes, Mrs Weasley. I think it’s just the potions I’m taking. One of the healers at St Mungo’s said that this could happen from time to time while I’m on the mend,” she explained.

Mrs Weasley frowned, but tucked the sheet up around Hermione despite the August warmth, and patted her hand. “I’ll bring in some of my special tea and once you’ve had a cup you can take a nap.” She looked over at Ginny, who’d finished putting their purchases away and was looking through an old issue of _Witch Weekly_ with Celestina Warbeck on the cover. “Come now, Ginny, let Hermione get some rest.”

Ginny closed the magazine and gave her mother a brief nod. “Feel better, Hermione,” she said with a little wave, and followed Mrs Weasley through the doorway.

When Mrs Weasley came back with the tea, she brought with her a vial of potion that was such a bright yellow that Hermione would have described it as _sunny_ , as well as Crookshanks, who ambled in behind the woman. “Here you are. When you wake up from your nap, drink this potion and you’ll feel much better. I checked my _Home Remedies_ book and it won’t interfere with the potions Madame Pomfrey gave you,” she explained.

The portly witch turned to leave and then hesitated. With a gesture of her wand, the door shut, and she turned back to the girl in bed. “Hermione, dear, I want you to cast a _Lumos_ charm.”

Hermione startled, her eyes widening. “But the Reasonable Restriction…” She stopped when Mrs Weasley gestured impatiently.

“Doesn’t work in _actual_ wizarding homes. Don’t tell Ginny or Ronald.”

Reluctantly, Hermione pulled her vine wand from beneath her pillow. _I was right_ , she thought as she gave the magical focus a brief polish with her bedsheet. _That’s why none of the purebloods ever get in trouble_. Out loud, she said firmly, “ _Lumos_ ,” and her wand threw off blue sparks before the tip glowed golden in the bedroom. “Why did you ask me to cast _this_ charm?” she asked curiously.

Mrs Weasley studied the light closely, but then she shook her head. “It was a guess, but I’m glad to be proven wrong. You’ll be right as rain once you drink your cuppa and have a nap.”

Hermione smiled again, whispered “ _Nox_ ,” to vanish the light, and took a generous sip of tea. She tried not to make a face at the taste: it was too sweet by half. “Thank you, Mrs Weasley. I’m sorry to have cut short your time with the twins…”

Mrs Weasley just waved a hand dismissively and tucked the sheet more firmly around Hermione. “Don’t be silly! Now, you finish your tea and we’ll see you at dinner.” She gave the orange, squash-faced cat an absent pet when he leapt onto the foot of Hermione’s bed and curled up. “Take care of our Hermione, then,” she admonished the cat before leaving the bedroom.

When the door was shut behind the Weasley matriarch, Hermione sighed and took a few more sips of her tea. Once she’d drunk a respectable amount, she slid down in the small bed and turned onto her side. She wondered what Harry and Ron were doing – Ron had been so _angry_ with them both. Even as the thought slid through her mind, the tea did its work and Hermione slid into a dreamless sleep with the sound of her cat’s soft snores in her ears.

In the living room, Ron set aside a copy of _Seeker Weekly_ and stood up from his place on the Weasleys’ sofa when Mrs Weasley returned. “How is she?” he asked. He shot a look at Harry, who was watching Mrs Weasley apprehensively and had half-risen from his own seat in an armchair.

“Oh, she’s just tired out, poor dear,” Mrs Weasley reported. “I’ve given her a spot of tea and a potion to take before dinner. She’ll be all fixed up by then, I’m sure.”

Ron gave Harry a significant look. Harry, for his part, stifled a sigh and followed his friend out to the yard when the taller boy got up and headed out the front door.

The two met under the same tree they’d all sat under the other night, but this time Ron leaned against the trunk and crossed his arms.

“How much do your parents know?” Harry asked, before Ron could say anything. He looked around for any sign of other members of the Weasley family – particularly those that might be using Extendable Ears. “Your mum didn’t want us anywhere near Gringotts.”

It was the wrong thing to say, Harry realized immediately: Ron’s ears turned red and the rest of his face was on its way to the same colour. “Mum’s just trying to protect us,” he argued. “You know that’s how she is. Doesn’t want us to be part of the Order, doesn’t want us in danger at all. Besides, we can’t all be at risk just because you need to talk to some _goblins_.”

Harry’s eyes widened behind his glasses, and he pushed them back onto his nose to try and disguise his shock. “Ron, telling your mum that I needed to visit Gringotts because of Sirius’ will was _your idea_. The three of us thought it would work.”

The redheaded boy just grunted. “And getting under your cloak with Hermione and chasing after Malfoy? Whose idea was that, then?”

“Mine, and we did it because we wanted to know what Malfoy was doing, sneaking around in Knockturn Alley. He bought something, probably something _dark_ , at Borgin and Burkes. I’m sure he’s going to bring it to Hogwarts, Ron, and he’ll probably _hurt_ someone with it,” Harry argued. 

“Well then you should tell Remus about it before he leaves, and he’ll tell Dumbledore. But you shouldn’t be running off with Hermione,” Ron insisted. “She tires out easily. I bet that’s what made her sick today!”

The icy feeling returned to Harry’s chest, and he shivered despite the August heat. Maybe he _had_ made Hermione sick, by dragging her off to follow Draco. Maybe the fact that they’d had to hurry back to the Weasleys’ store had overtaxed her. It had felt so good to have his arm around her waist and her body pressed so close to him that he hadn’t even thought that he could be making her feel worse.

“And anyway,” Ron continued while Harry was still ruminating, “You’re being paranoid. Malfoy’s _always_ up to something and it’s probably not about you or your inheritance. Not everything is about bloody Harry Potter,” he finished with a snarl.

The words made Harry draw back as though he’d been burned. His eyes flashed bright green and as his face turned ashen, the raised, red, lightning bolt scar stood out all the more. “I don’t want everything to be about _bloody Harry Potter_ , Ron,” he retorted. “But Voldemort’s back,” he didn’t bother to hide the way he rolled his eyes when Ron winced, “and it’s no surprise that the Malfoys want Sirius’ money for him. You saw Malfoy: he showed up in Diagon Alley, threatened me, insulted Hermione, and then he walked into a store known for _selling dark artefacts_.”

“You don’t know _what_ Malfoy was doing,” Ron objected. “He could have been looking for a present for his mum, for all you know!”

“Why are you defending him?” Harry’s voice took on a tone of incredulity, and he stared at his best mate in abject confusion. “You _hate_ Malfoy.”

Ron’s lips twisted in a snarl and he shook his head. “It’s just not all about _you_ ,” he insisted. “Just leave Hermione alone!” He stormed off toward the orchard before Harry could reply, leaving Harry to stare after him in confusion.

“What the bloody hell was that all about?” he muttered to himself. Between Hermione’s illness and Ron’s temper, not to mention Mrs Weasley and Ginny’s behaviour, Harry was starting to think that everyone around him was under a spell.

* * *

Harry barely spoke to anyone in the days following the trip to Diagon Alley. It wasn’t exactly easy to avoid people in the overcrowded Burrow, particularly without attracting the attention of Mr or Mrs Weasley, but Harry used the excuse of completing his summer reading one day, and the other two he spent as much time on his broom as he could, training (he said) for the upcoming quidditch season.

On the fourth day, Harry found himself up a tree in the orchard behind the Burrow. He’d brought a book, which he wasn’t reading, but it was a good enough excuse to continue his efforts to avoid his friends. Every time he thought of Ron, his anger simmered. His best mate was jealous of him – again. They’d argued over Harry’s wealth before, and that was when all he had (or thought he had) was the money in the trust vault. Ron _still_ didn’t seem to understand that Harry would have traded it all to have a real family.

Every time he thought of Hermione, something in his chest twisted and writhed in pain. Hermione and Ron had clearly reached a new stage in their relationship just in time for Harry to realize that he didn’t just think of Hermione as his best friend. In fact, he hadn’t thought of Hermione as _just_ a friend in months.

It would have been more bearable if Hermione at least seemed _happy_ with Ron. But for every time Harry saw the two of them holding hands or kissing, he also saw her act as though nothing had happened between them, or even as though she’d rather be somewhere else. He’d even seen her trying not to cry, once, when she thought no one was looking. And she still seemed so _ill_. That hurt even more than watching Hermione and Ron together. She was still sick because of the curse Dolohov had used; his best friend was suffering because _he’d_ convinced her to follow him to the ministry and walk into a trap.

 _I don’t deserve Hermione anyway,_ Harry argued with himself. He’d nearly gotten her killed! Whatever _his_ feelings on the matter, Hermione and Ron had clearly already made their choice. He rather wished they’d at least spoken with him about it, but the most important things had to be that they were still his friends – and that they were happy.

Maybe they were happy together, despite the oddness of the whole thing. After all, what did he know about relationships? Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were affectionate when he was younger, he supposed, but things had been tense since she forced Vernon and Dudley onto a diet. Molly Weasley clearly loved Arthur Weasley, but often her love seemed to take the form of exasperated fondness for the muggle-obsessed man. Maybe Ron and Hermione liked things the way they were. He didn’t exactly have anyone else to compare them with, unless he included the Malfoys. Lucius Malfoy had always been solicitous of Narcissa Malfoy, at least in public. He shuddered at the thought of comparing Ron and Hermione with a family of Death Eaters, and shook himself out of his thoughts.

Harry took a deep breath and started to climb down from the tree, but voices on the grounds below him stayed his movements. He clung awkwardly to the branches and then quickly clambered back up to the branch he’d been sitting on, then sat perfectly still as the voices grew louder.

Not far from his chosen tree, Hermione and Ron were standing beneath another tree. Harry could barely see them through the thick leaves of the apple trees, but he could certainly hear them. They were having another argument, based on the way the two were facing off against one another. He couldn’t hear exactly what they were saying – just a few words here and there, and the anger in their voices.

Hermione’s hair was flying loose in the summer breeze, and streams of chestnut-hued waves and curls swirled around her head. Despite the uneasy feeling that rose in him watching the two argue, Harry couldn’t help but enjoy how energetic she looked just then. For just a moment, it was as if she’d never been ill at all. For the first time he found himself thinking that Hermione was _hot_ , and he wondered if Ron fought with Hermione so often because she was so attractive when she was angry. Immediately, Harry regretted allowing both of those thoughts into his head.

Barely restraining himself from dropping down to interfere in the fight as he ordinarily would, Harry instead watched as Ron paced in front of Hermione, red hair nearly matched by the colour of his face. He expected Hermione to once again give as good as she got – but instead she slumped, suddenly, and shook her head. She must have whispered something, because Ron shrugged, and his face seemed to be returning to its normal colour. He reached out to squeeze her hand, and Harry saw Hermione smile just a little before she turned to walk back to the Burrow.

Stuck up in the tree, Harry reminded himself silently that he wanted his two best friends to be _happy_ – even if something seemed _off_ about the argument he’d just watched.

Instead of following her, Ron stayed out in the garden and kicked the base of one of the other trees a few times before sitting down and leaning his head back against the trunk. When Ginny joined him in the orchard a few minutes later, Harry swore under his breath. He didn’t really want to talk to _her_ , either – ever since the trip to Diagon Alley she’d been making any excuse possible to touch him, and her perfume made him sneeze every time he caught even a whiff of it.

* * *

Ginny sat down next to Ron and passed him a large glass of their mum’s lemonade. “Fighting with Hermione _again_ , Ron?” she asked, a touch of sympathy in her voice. Her mane of red hair was tied up in a high ponytail and she wore what Ron thought was an awfully short pair of shorts. Along with an equally skimpy tank top, they showed off the tan she’d built up playing pick-up quidditch for the past week.

Ron shoved a hand through his hair in frustration before taking a long gulp of the freezing, sweet-tart beverage. “Just another of her flare-ups, Gin. She’s worried over Harry like always. Thinks it’s upset him that we’re…closer, I guess. What with Sirius being gone and all.”

“Do you want me to talk to her? Other people are worried about Harry too – she doesn’t have to do _all_ the worrying,” Ginny replied. She glanced back toward the Burrow. “I can talk to Harry, too, about you and Hermione.”

With a sidelong glance, Ron shook his head briefly. “Just let her get it out of her system. Dolohov’s curse still has her jumping at things and sleeping as much as that cat of hers.” He took another sip of lemonade, and made a face. “Did mum change the recipe? This is sweeter than usual.”

Ginny shrugged and leaned back against the tree trunk. “Maybe she didn’t stir it enough and you got extra sugar in your glass.” She smirked at him. “Since when is _anything_ too sweet for you?”

“I didn’t say that it’s too sweet, just sweeter than normal. Mum say what’s for dinner?”

“Cottage pie, although I don’t see why when it’s so bloody hot outside. But she said Harry and Hermione both need to put some meat on their bones.” Ginny sniffed. “There’s treacle tart and ice cream for pudding, so you’ll be fine.”

Ron took another gulp of his lemonade. “I like cottage pie, and Harry _is_ scrawny,” he said. “Are you hiding out from mum so she can’t make you help?”

“ _No_ , I’m not hiding from mum. She wanted me to give you some lemonade. She said you’d been de-gnoming the gardens with the twins all morning,” Ginny replied, “and thought you’d be thirsty in this heat. I gave some to the twins as well.” She squinted up through the tree leaves at the bright afternoon sky. “Have you seen Harry today? Dad was looking for him – something about the Ministry.”

Ron shook his head. “He’s been scarce the last few days. Like I said – ‘Mione thinks he’s upset and brooding, she likes to call it.”

Ginny’s eyes narrowed, but then she stood up and held out her hand to her older brother. “Well, come on then – if you’re done with your lemonade, mum actually _does_ need help, and I still need to find Harry.”

* * *

As the two youngest Weasleys left the orchard, Harry let out a sigh of relief and waited until they were out of sight before climbing down from his perch in the tree. He still didn’t want to speak with them – or with Hermione – but it was hot out, and he’d recognized Mrs Weasley’s lemonade even from up in a tree. He tucked his book under one arm and set out for the Burrow once more.

When he stepped inside the house a few minutes later, he spotted Hermione first, curled up on the sofa with Crookshanks. She was asleep, and a half-empty glass of lemonade sat on the end table nearest her. Harry couldn’t help the frown that spread across his face, even as his heart flip-flopped at the sight of her. There were soft shadows beneath the girl’s eyes, and her dress had twisted around her waist so that it rode up above her knees.

Even that glimpse of her thighs had Harry blushing, and he hurried by the sofa toward the kitchen. He had no business looking at his friend like that! _Especially when it’s clearly Ron she’s interested in_ , he admonished himself. There was a giant pitcher of lemonade on the counter, and Harry turned toward one of the cupboards to reach for a glass when a flash of red hair appeared in the corner of one eye. When he finished taking a glass down and turned again, Ginny was standing near the lemonade pitcher.

“Oh, hullo, Ginny,” Harry greeted. She was still wearing that perfume, he could tell almost immediately, and he stifled a sneeze as he reached for the pitcher.

Ginny smiled up at him and shifted in closer so that Harry would need to reach past her for the lemonade. Harry coughed and grabbed for the pitcher, then poured a glass of lemonade for himself and took a sip to soothe the sudden scratchy feeling in his throat.

“I’ve been looking for you for an hour, you know,” she said, and Harry took a step back after he put the pitcher on the countertop. “You’ve been hard to find.” Despite her scolding, the witch’s tone was bright and there was a smile on her face; Harry smiled back after a moment of hesitation.

“I’ve been reading,” he explained, and gestured at the book he’d set down on the other counter. After another sip of lemonade, Harry asked, “So why were you looking for me?” He kept the glass in front of him like a barrier.

“Dad wants to talk to you, actually,” Ginny explained, and Harry thought he heard a note of disappointment in her voice. “He said it’s something to do with the Ministry.”

As Ginny spoke, the floral scent in the room grew stronger, and Harry’s nose itched while at the same time, a headache began to form right between his eyes. He sneezed, and this time couldn’t stifle it. “Uh, I’ll just…find your dad then,” he managed, and sniffled. “Listen, Ginny, are you wearing perfume? It’s just, there’s this flowery smell in the room and I think I’m allergic to it.”

Ginny frowned. “I’m sorry, Harry. It must be my shampoo! Luna gave it to me as an early birthday present – she said it would keep away wrackspurts but I think it just smells good.”

Harry nodded and downed the rest of his lemonade, then placed his glass in the sink. “Sorry, I think it’s got something in it that,” he interrupted himself with another sneeze, “I’m _really_ allergic to. I’m uh – I’m going to go find your dad.” He beat a swift retreat, sneezing twice before he got out of the kitchen.

The young witch sniffed the air experimentally once she was alone. “It’s not _that_ strong a smell,” she muttered, and frowned deeply.


	11. Interlude: The Estate in Grovely Wood

Ordinary people knew of the southwestern part of Wiltshire as an area of natural beauty, where nature-lovers could often be found motoring through the rolling hills and valleys, admiring the scenery between quaint parishes and farmlands. Tourists were drawn most especially to Grovely Wood, where the nature trails and roads were largely maintained by a volunteer corps of local residents in between visits from the Forestry Commission.

For years the forest had been quiet, despite the occasional visitor going missing in the deeper, darker areas where the trees grew thicker and the light from the sun barely shone even at noon. Sometimes the oldest residents of Wilton blamed the Handsel sisters for the disappearances, whispering that the girls were haunting the wood in retaliation for their murder by villagers more than 250 years ago.

Whenever a hiker disappeared, police officers and volunteers from Wilton and Salisbury would comb through the wood searching for signs of the missing person. Sometimes they found a body, untouched save for the fact that the unfortunate person was dead. Sometimes they found a hiker, alive and unharmed but claiming to have seen fantastical things: small, brown creatures in tattered robes that looked like something out of an Irish folktale, or a medieval castle where every ordinary person knew that none could exist. Those hikers, the poor souls, were brought to hospital and quite often left there until they could be convinced that they’d simply been dehydrated and hallucinating. After all, ordinary people knew that there was no castle in Grovely Wood.

Wizards and witches, on the other hand, could look past the muggle-repelling and defensive wards to see, instead, the imposing country house in a valley past the edge of the oldest trees. There were no roads leading to the estate property, which sprawled for nearly two dozen hectares across the valley. Lush, green expanses held magically-protected farmland and a vineyard, along with an array of glass greenhouses.

In the centre of the lands was a three-storey building that would have put a muggle in mind of Hardwick Hall, hundreds of kilometres to the north. Grey stone rose into the sky, its surface pierced with hundreds of rectangles of crystal-clear glass, each framed in lead. Along the balustrades slithered serpentine creatures of iron, their bodies wrapping around the tops of four towers that rose above the main structure.

“Ooh, but it’s such an _honour_ , Cissy!” a high-pitched voice, its tone tilting between joy and madness, exclaimed from the spacious, elegantly appointed room nestled inside the southern tower.

“It’s _suicide_ ,” Narcissa Malfoy retorted from her seat on the edge of an emerald silk-upholstered fainting couch. “The Dark Lord is punishing my son, _your_ nephew, in case you’ve forgotten, for Lucius’ failures.”

“It’s not a punishment, sister. Draco is going to take the Dark Mark in three days and then he’s going to go back to Hogwarts and carry out an important task for the glory of the Dark Lord. Your son will be _instrumental_ in ensuring our victory!”

Outside the door, the ‘hero’ in question was listening with one of the Weasleys’ Extendable Ears. Blood traitors though they were, the twins’ inventions could be useful, and Draco had used his position on the Inquisitorial Squad to confiscate a few from younger students at Hogwarts.

Neither his mother nor his aunt had thought to cast a charm to keep others from listening in. At Aunt Bellatrix’s words, however, Draco’s already pale face went dead white and he quickly extracted the Ear before hurrying back toward his suite of rooms in the western tower.

 _Three days_. He had three days to decide whether to follow his father’s path and take the Dark Mark. Six weeks ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated. The Malfoys were superior, after all, like all purebloods, and the Dark Lord was sure to win against dotty old Dumbledore and the scarhead.

But then his cousin, Sirius Black, a man he didn’t even _know_ , had been killed by Aunt Bellatrix. And Black had left him a trust. Why not just leave everything to his godchild, or maybe that Tonks woman? Why would the man think to give family artefacts to him, let alone the galleons? The man’s letter notwithstanding, Draco didn’t understand why he’d _bothered_.

Finally reaching his rooms on the other side of Malfoy Manor, Draco slipped inside and shut the door tightly behind him. He cast a simple imperturbable charm at the door and sat down on the edge of his bed. Even here at home he wore a sharply tailored suit, and with a sigh he toed off the polished black shoes. He left them on the floor where they landed; a house elf would take care of them before long.

Draco fingered the platinum ring on his right hand; it symbolised his status as Lucius Malfoy’s heir, which until recently had meant he was a little prince in the Death Eaters’ eyes. But _Potter_ had ruined that. With a snarl, Draco corrected himself. Lucius had ruined it: as smart as his father was, he, and many other Death Eaters, had gotten caught in the trap Lord Voldemort had laid for Potter and his friends.

If he took the Mark in three days’ time, the money from the trust would be gone, and Draco would have no choice but to throw his lot in with the Death Eaters until the end. He believed that Voldemort was more powerful than Harry Potter, but Dumbledore was another story. Even if the old man was a muggle-lover and a fool, he was the only wizard Voldemort feared.

If he refused to take the Mark, Voldemort would take offence – and people died when the Dark Lord took offence. Sirius’ letter had laid a compulsion on him to keep the trust’s contents to himself, so telling any of the Death Eaters about the gold was out of the question.

If he ran and avoided Voldemort entirely, he would be leaving his mother behind. Aunt Bellatrix had the favour of the Dark Lord, but he didn’t think that favour would extend to her younger sister if the Malfoy scion escaped to France. Draco wasn’t certain _how_ he would go about escaping to France, exactly, but it seemed a likelier option than convincing Lord Voldemort that he didn’t _need_ the Dark Mark.

Draco stared down at his hands. He had three days to make a choice. 

Three days to decide whether to be a Death Eater, a fugitive, or a dead man.


	12. A New School Year

Early on the morning of September 1, Harry sat in the kitchen of the Burrow while the Weasley family bustled in and out of the room. He had packed the night before, and so was the only one ready for breakfast. Hermione was still upstairs, asleep he presumed. He knew she’d had her trunk packed for two days: his best friend was scarily organized, even when ill. She’d claimed to be getting better but even after another three weeks of rest, Harry couldn’t see much of a difference. If anything, she looked even worse despite potions from Madam Pomfrey _and_ Mrs Weasley.

Harry put his best friend’s exhaustion out of his thoughts as the Weasleys – and Hermione – finally entered the kitchen in a cacophony of heavy footsteps on stairs and shoved chairs on the kitchen floor. While Ron was stuffing himself with rashers of bacon, fluffy scrambled eggs, and buttered toast, and Ginny was eating a full English breakfast, Hermione calmly sipped her tea and picked at a small bowl of oatmeal. Harry eyed her suspiciously and she just offered him a little smile, saying, “It feels too early for a big breakfast.”

In fact, Hermione’s stomach troubles were back, having subsided for all of a week, and she nearly made them all late to catch the train. While the others waited, she locked herself in the Weasleys’ hall bath and retched up what little she’d eaten. Her stomach cramped ominously, and she thanked Merlin that Mr and Mrs Weasley kept a permanent sound-dampening charm on the room (a must, with so many family members and guests under one roof). But while Harry and Mrs Weasley both looked concerned when she returned to the kitchen, Hermione just sheepishly muttered, “I drank too much tea.”

Finally, the Weasleys, Harry, Hermione, and Remus – who’d returned to the Burrow to serve as another guard for Harry – were ready to leave. Arthur Weasley had arranged for cars from the Ministry to transport them all, and each teenager dutifully packed their trunks in the boot of each car and their animal cages in the back seats. Harry was the last to pack his trunk, and Mrs Weasley pulled him aside as he turned to come back around the side of the middle car.

“Harry,” she started quietly, “I want you to keep an eye on Hermione. See that she speaks with Madam Pomfrey as soon as possible.”

Harry tensed, and eyed Mrs Weasley suspiciously. “I’ve told her she should,” he said, “but I’ll say it again. I don’t – she seems so _sick_ , Mrs Weasley.” He kept his tone low, like she had, but his voice cracked on the words and he had to stifle a grunt when the witch hugged him tightly in response.

“Poppy will take care of her, you’ll see – just make sure she goes to the hospital wing, there’s a good lad.”

Gratified that someone other than him was paying attention to Hermione’s illness, Harry climbed into the car and buckled himself in for the long ride to the station.

In the rush to get to King’s Cross Hermione’s dallying was forgotten, and as Mrs Weasley watched for muggles Ron, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny all slipped through the barrier to Platform 9 ¾. They’d dressed in muggle clothes to avoid calling attention to themselves, although not for the first time Hermione muttered to Harry that she didn’t know _that_ was supposed to help when she was carting an old-fashioned trunk and a cat carrier behind her. “At least Crookshanks has gotten used to the carrier,” she sighed.

As Molly waved goodbye, Harry helped Hermione get her trunk onto the train. They found a compartment by the front and Hermione pulled her wand from the front pocket of her dress with relief. When she cast a feather-light charm on the trunk, however, her wand gave off a few red sparks and the trunk shuddered ominously. When Hermione grabbed the handle and tried to lift the trunk, it felt as heavy as ever and she stared at it, and then at her wand, in consternation.

“Maybe there’s something wrong with your wand?” Ron asked, as he watched Hermione glare at her trunk. “It’s been packed away all summer, yeah? Maybe it’s rusty.”

The glare was redirected to Ron, something Harry found surprising given the way the two had been holding hands half the summer. “Wands don’t get _rusty_ , Ronald. Perhaps I said the incantation incorrectly.”

Hermione pointed her pale vine wand at her trunk again and, drawing herself up, said “ _Pluma en lucem_ ” in a clear voice. Her wand shook a little, and threw off more sparks, but this time the trunk gleamed silver briefly. “There,” she said crisply. “I must have mumbled a bit the first time.” With only a modicum of effort she put the trunk up on the luggage rack and let Crookshanks out of his carrier. She and the cat curled up in the corner of the compartment, and the cat began to knead her lap.

The two boys exchanged another look, but each got their own trunks onto the luggage rack and then sat across from Hermione – who, Harry noted, was already looking drowsy. Ginny had run off to find Luna Lovegood, and when Ron excused himself to look for Dean and Seamus, Harry leaned forward. “Hermione,” he said, and the girl stirred.

“Hmm?”

“Promise me you’ll see Madam Pomfrey, alright?”

“Mhm.”

Crookshanks’ purring grew louder, and his eyes opened to stare at Harry. The cat _nodded_ , and settled more fully onto Hermione. Harry wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean, but the half-kneazle had already proven his intelligence many times over. Clearly the creature knew something was amiss. Maybe he could smell it.

Harry read quietly while Hermione dozed; eventually, Ron returned and the two played a game of chess while the train sped north.

Two hours into the trip, a short, stout girl with strawberry-blonde hair slid open the compartment door. Harry looked up and so did Ron, but Hermione was still dozing.

“Harry, Professor Slughorn would like to see you in the third car, second compartment,” the younger student announced. Harry and Ron exchanged a look.

“Professor who?” Harry finally asked.

“Professor Slughorn,” she replied. “He’s the new Potions Professor. He’s asked you to join him for lunch in his compartment.” She paused. “Oh, and Ron, you and Hermione are expected in the Prefect’s Compartment in half an hour.”

Harry recognized her suddenly: the student was Orla Quirke, a third year Ravenclaw. “Thanks, Orla,” he said. The girl nodded and darted off, presumably to find someone else.

“Snape’s not teaching potions anymore?” Ron asked incredulously when the compartment was shut again. “D’you think Dumbledore finally sacked him?”

Harry shrugged. “Dunno. I guess we’ll find out at the feast tonight. You’d better wake up Hermione, though – she’ll be angry if she misses the Prefect’s Meeting.”

“I will. Well, I guess you’d better go, then,” Ron said, although his ears were turning slightly red and he sounded a bit resentful. He turned toward Hermione, and Crookshanks’ eyes opened. The cat growled menacingly, and Ron held up his hands in surrender. “Damned cat. He hasn’t liked me much since…” His entire face turned red this time, and Harry felt his chest tighten again.

“Here, let me. C’mon Crooks,” Harry cajoled, and stepped closer to the half-kneazle. “Hermione has to get to a meeting.”

The cat looked up at Harry and obediently climbed off of Hermione’s lap. He bunted Harry’s hand as he did so, and the boy gave him a scratch behind the ears as he curled up on the seat next to his mistress. Harry leaned in and gave Hermione’s shoulder a little shake. “C’mon Hermione. You have to get ready for the prefects’ meeting,” he said, and gave her another little shake.

Hermione’s eyes opened and Harry smiled down at her sympathetically. He tried to ignore the way that his fingertips tingled from touching just her shoulder, and the way that her cinnamon brown eyes looked sultry when she first woke. He was surprised that he could still breathe, given the sudden tightness in his chest. Quickly, he withdrew his hand and straightened. “The prefects’ meeting is going to start soon,” he repeated as Hermione blinked up at him drowsily.

The words brought Hermione to full wakefulness, and she sat up straight, eyes clear and most of the traces of sleep banished with a shake of her head. “Thanks, Harry,” she said, and offered him a smile as she stood and reached for her trunk. “Ron, we’d better change into our robes. We’ll need to patrol the train cars after the meeting, I’m sure.” She paused and gave Harry a guilty look. “Will you be alright in here by yourself?”

“Apparently,” Harry said, “There’s a new Potions professor. And he’s invited me to join him for lunch.” He shrugged at Hermione’s incredulous look. “I guess he wants to see the Boy Who Lived. Orla Quirke said his name is Slughorn.”

“ _Slughorn?_ He’s been retired for _years_ , Harry! I’m surprised Professor Dumbledore was able to get him to come back!” Hermione struggled to pull the trunk down from the luggage rack, and frowned in consternation. “How long was I asleep? That charm should have lasted three hours at least!”

Harry glanced toward Ron, but the other boy was busy pulling his own trunk down from the rack and didn’t seem to notice Hermione struggling. With a shake of his head, Harry wordlessly helped Hermione pull her trunk down and set it on the floor. By the time Harry straightened up, Hermione was already lifting a neatly folded set of robes and a uniform blouse, skirt, and shoes from inside.

Harry turned from the sight of Hermione bent over her trunk, and slipped out of the compartment as Ron was digging for a uniform in his own luggage. _Hermione is his, or wants to be his_ , he told himself resolutely, and ignored the icy feeling in his chest as he walked toward the front of the train.

When he opened the correct compartment door and the sound of laughter drifted out, the tension between Harry’s shoulder blades eased just a little. At least he wasn’t the only student invited by this Slughorn fellow.

In fact, as he entered the magically-enlarged train compartment, he saw that Cormac McLaggen and Neville were there, and so were Zabini and Nott from Slytherin. There were twin students that Harry vaguely recalled were the Carrow girls.

There was a flash of red in the corner of his eye, and as Harry turned he saw that Ginny was there too. She smiled at him as he shut the compartment door, and Harry hesitantly smiled back. She was wearing perfume again, he could tell immediately. It didn’t smell like the earlier stuff that he’d had such a violent reaction to, but it still tickled his nose. There was an itch between his shoulder blades as he looked at her. Her lips were the colour of berries, and pink dusted her cheeks; her hair swept around her shoulders loosely and shined in the sunlight coming in from the windows. She was already wearing her uniform, but her robes were open to expose the fact that she was wearing a snug blouse and short, pleated skirt.

The icy feeling returned as Harry pictured, suddenly, cinnamon eyes and deep brown, wavy hair – and the way Hermione had looked as she’d lifted her arms above her head to reach for her trunk, tired but still pretty, with fabric softly clinging to her-- 

“And you must be Harry!” an older, male voice called, and he turned to see the man who must have summoned him. The professor struck him immediately as someone who must frequently be called _jovial_. He was nearly as large around as Uncle Vernon before Dudley’s diet, and the buttons on his brown plaid vest seemed in danger of popping off at any moment. His suit jacket and trousers matched the vest, and Harry had an awful moment during which he thought the man rather resembled a large chair from Mrs Figg’s house. With some relief, he let that thought douse both his discomfort at Ginny’s appearance _and_ the very different discomfort he felt at remembering Hermione’s.

“Professor Slughorn, then?” Harry asked, and automatically shook the beefy hand held out to take his.

“Indeed, my boy! Now come, come join us for lunch, you as well Miss Weasley, and you must tell us all about your summer. Miss Weasley was just telling me that the Burrow has a delightful yard big enough to play a game of quidditch…”

Harry let the words wash over him, and allowed Slughorn to guide him further into the car, where a rectangular table sat between a pair of magically-enlarged, padded benches. There was a snowy white tablecloth covering the wooden surface, and service for nine set out.

As he sat down next to Professor Slughorn, Neville joined him on his other side, and the Carrow girls sat across the table from him. Ginny ended up wedged between Hestia Carrow and Cormac McLaggen, and Harry caught the uncomfortable look she shot him. Guilt filled him, for a moment, but they were with a professor and Cormac, at least, was a Gryffindor even if he’d heard rumours about the older boy.

“Now then, I think a spot of lunch is in order, don’t you?” Slughorn tapped the table just once with his wand, and a spread of warm rolls, platters of thinly sliced meats and cheeses, and little jars of condiments covered the table. There was pumpkin juice, too, icy cold in pitchers that immediately acquired a layer of condensation.

Cormac was first to the rolls, and he filled his plate with not one but _two_ sandwiches stuffed with rare roast beef, cheddar, and pungent horseradish. As the others also began to dig in, Harry reached for a brioche bun and split it, filling it with carved slices of turkey and tangy cranberry relish.

“Now then, Harry, you _must_ tell me about your course schedule for this year,” Slughorn demanded, although his tone was genial. “You’ll be in NEWT-level potions like Blaise and Theodore here, won’t you?”

Harry’s cheeks burned. “Ah, no, sir,” he said. “Sna—Professor Snape requires an Outstanding on the Potions OWL to be eligible for Potions. I received an E.”

At that, Slughorn scoffed and waved the hand not holding a ham sandwich, nearly upsetting Flora Carrow’s pumpkin juice. “I’ll have a look at your OWL results in the morning. I’m of the opinion that we need _more_ of Hogwarts’ students taking potions, not less.”

Harry agreed uncertainly, and turned his attention back to his sandwich as Slughorn leaned forward to talk to the Carrow girls. They were a little creepy, the pair of them, looking more identical than Fred and George and as pale as if they never left the Slytherin dungeons. He pretended not to notice when Ginny tried to get his attention, and concentrated on eating his turkey sandwich. He wondered how Slughorn had managed to get a full lunch for his guests onto the train – usually there was just the trolley witch and her array of sweets. _Must be house-elves_ , he thought. _Maybe Slughorn has a personal elf._ He poured a glass full of pumpkin juice for himself and scooped up some salad from a bowl that suddenly appeared, replacing the now-empty plate that had held the brioche.

“How’s Hermione doing?” Neville suddenly asked, and Harry looked his way. The other boy had begun to slim down over the last year, and he must have been doing something physical over the summer: his chubby cheeks were entirely gone and he’d lost the fullness around his jaw. More than that, though, Harry sensed that Neville’s confidence had continued to increase: he’d been chatting amiably enough with Cormac, and only looked a little uncomfortable at being singled out by Slughorn.

“She’s getting better,” he said, and hoped it was true. “She spent August at the Burrow, like I did. She and Ron…” That icy feeling in his chest was back, suddenly. “Are at the Prefect’s meeting,” he finished.

If Neville noticed Harry’s hesitation, he let it go unremarked. “Still just _getting_ better _?_ I know that she was hurt worst of all of us, but didn’t Pomfrey fix her up?”

The question was met with an uneasy shrug from Harry. “She gave Hermione a bunch of potions to take home with her. I made her promise to see Pomfrey when we get back to the castle, because she still gets tired easily. But she says she’s getting better every day.”

Neville shot Harry a concerned look, but Slughorn was calling for everyone’s attention, and before the two Gryffindors could say anything more on the subject, the spread of food vanished from the table. It was replaced by enormous dishes of raspberry ripple ice cream that appeared in front of each student; there was tea, too, and Harry poured for the Carrows and Neville before taking a cup for himself.

By the time Slughorn released the eight students from lunch the sun was starting to set, and Harry hurried back to his compartment to change into his uniform before they arrived in Hogsmeade. Hermione was there, half asleep again with Crookshanks watching over her, but Ron was nowhere to be found. Harry tamped down the sudden flare of anger he felt at seeing Hermione left defenceless and reached for his trunk. _If Ron and Hermione are together, why does he keep leaving her alone?_ he wondered as he quickly threw his robes on over his jeans and T-shirt.

* * *

Even after five years, Hogwarts was still an impressive sight as the thestral-drawn carriages pulled up to the gates. Ron had returned to the train compartment just as the Express was pulling into Hogsmeade station, and he joined Harry, Hermione, and Neville in a carriage up to the castle. They hurried into the Great Hall and found places at the Gryffindor table; Luna Lovegood glided by them on her way to the Ravenclaw table and frowned at Hermione, warning her to watch out for alpluachra. The bushy-haired young woman gave Luna a puzzled look, but gamely agreed to keep an eye out.

Then, suddenly, it was time for the sorting and nervous first years followed Professor McGonagall into the hall. There were fewer than last year, Harry saw, and he wondered if parents were choosing to keep their children at home, or sending them to other schools. As he looked around the Great Hall, Harry realized that in fact any number of students from the other years were missing: the Hufflepuff table was missing a dozen or more from the second through seventh years, and Ravenclaw had gaps as well. Slytherin was nearly full, so far as he could tell. He looked up toward the teachers’ table and startled at the sight of Professor Snape, sitting between McGonagall and Slughorn; apparently, he hadn’t been sacked after all.

Missing students or not, however, the feast began as it always did: with the sorting. One by one the Sorting Hat analysed each of the first years and called out their new houses. When the last student, Bartholomew Zeller, was sorted into Hufflepuff, Dumbledore swept up to his golden podium in a swirl of lime green velvet robes. Harry tuned out the aging headmaster as he gave his usual warnings about the Forbidden Forest and Filch’s ever-growing list of banned items.

When the speech was finished and the welcome feast appeared before them, Ron eagerly filled his plate. Harry moved more slowly; he was no longer full from Slughorn’s lunch party, but the larger than usual meal meant that he wasn’t famished. Hermione put hardly anything on her plate, and Harry and Ron exchanged looks of concern.

“Take a little more, Hermione,” Harry urged. “There’s beef casserole down by Seamus.” Hermione actually looked a little green at that, despite the fact that it was usually something she preferred.

“My stomach’s a little unsettled from the carriage ride,” she said, and Harry shot her a look but didn’t argue about the fact that she’d never gotten _unsettled_ on the carriage ride or even their ill-fated thestral flight.

Ron had said something to Dean on his left, and a moment later a basket of warm, sliced bread was passed from somewhere further down the table. “Bread, then – it’ll settle your stomach, my mum always says.”


	13. Wobbly Wands and Pomfrey's Potions

“Hermione, are you coming down for breakfast?” Lavender Brown’s voice carried through the girls’ bathroom in Gryffindor Tower, and Hermione took as quiet a breath as she could when the next wave of pain rolled through her body. Mrs Weasley may have said that bread would settle a stomach, but Hermione didn’t think that the rolls served by Hogwarts had helped at all. The nausea and cramps had come late, but they’d arrived shortly before six in the morning.

“I’ll…be down in a few minutes,” Hermione managed to call. Sweat dotted her temples and she swallowed convulsively against the faint burning sensation in her throat.

“Alright…I’ll let Harry and Ron know you’ll meet them at the table, then,” came the reply, and she couldn’t help the sigh of relief when the door shut. She leaned her head against the side of the mahogany-hued stall, taking comfort in the cool wood against her overwarm brow. _Harry’s right. I need to see Madame Pomfrey again,_ she thought. _Maybe she’ll do something more than just tell me to take the potions like the St Mungo’s healers did…_

A few minutes later, freshened up and with one of Lavender’s beauty creams to soften the circles under her eyes, Hermione hurried down to the Great Hall as quickly as she could. She was already running late for breakfast, and it didn’t help that Gryffindor Tower seemed half a castle away from the Great Hall. She stopped every few minutes to catch her breath and soon her temples were damp with sweat again; Hermione couldn’t help but be grateful that she _was_ so late, and that so few students were still in the halls. She’d have skipped breakfast entirely, except that the teachers still insisted on handing out class schedules during the first breakfast of the year.

Most of Gryffindor was nearly done with their breakfasts by the time Hermione arrived, out of breath, and sat at the long wooden table. Toast and scrambled eggs were set on her plate before she could even reach for anything, courtesy of Ron, and Harry poured a cup of tea with a touch of milk for her. It was uncharacteristic of both of them, and Hermione gave each of them a suspicious look, although her heart flip-flopped at the thoughtfulness. Whether it was because of Ron or Harry, she couldn’t have said.

“Figured I’d better make sure you got food on your plate before breakfast disappeared,” Ron grunted.

Harry, for his part, just flushed slightly and turned his attention back to the rasher of thick-cut bacon on his plate, which was clearly the last of his own repast.

Hermione buttered the toast and nibbled at it, deciding not to question her feelings and instead allow herself to be comforted by the way her friends were looking after her. 

Professor McGonagall began to pass out course schedules a few minutes later; Harry stared at his schedule after the professor handed over his and moved on to the next student. “This says I’m taking Potions,” he said.

Hermione leaned over and eyed his schedule. “I thought you said you didn’t qualify for NEWT-level Potions, Harry. Didn’t you get an E on your OWL?”

“Yeah – but Professor Slughorn told me he wanted to have a look at the OWL scores, since he didn’t teach us last year.”

“So he _is_ the new Potions professor?” Ron asked. “So then…”

“Professor Snape is teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts,” Hermione finished. She sounded calmer than she felt, knowing that Snape was finally teaching his favourite subject. Perhaps it would cheer up the foul-tempered professor.

“First on our schedule, too,” Ron groaned.

Hermione ignored Ron’s groan and focused on eating her toast; she just hoped her stomach wouldn’t rebel once again.

* * *

Professor Snape was his usual black-clad, greasy-haired self, although he seemed a touch less dour than he had last June. His great black robes billowed around him as he swept toward the front of the classroom, and his cold black eyes raked over the Gryffindors. “We will begin casting _non-verbal spells_ today,” he announced. “What is the advantage of a nonverbal spell?” When no one raised their hand, his eyes swept over the classroom and his eyebrows rose in Hermione’s direction.

Harry gave Hermione a subtle nudge under the table at her continued silence, and the witch raised her hand.

“Miss Granger,” Snape prompted.

“The wizard you are facing will not know what spell you are casting if you cast nonverbally, which will give you a split-second advantage,” Hermione explained.

Snape nodded, once, and returned his attention to the rest of the class. “You will be practicing with the shield charm this morning.” When nobody moved, he waved a hand contemptuously. “Get on with it, then. There is no need to speak.”

Students began to stand, and Hermione followed at a nudge from Ron. She raised her wand and at Snape’s brusque instruction, swept her arm around in the circle that formed the _protego_ spell. The wand gave a shudder and lights sparked from the tip, but she could tell immediately that the spell had failed. Ron didn’t even manage the sparks. Neville and Harry’s faces were screwed up in concentration, but nothing was happening; Malfoy seemed intent on swinging his wand around as violently as possible to assist his spellcasting, although like her he produced no more than a spark or two.

Hermione returned her attention to her own practice at a glare from Snape; over and over she swung her wand in the circular motion that signified the shield spell and thought the words as strongly as she could. Each time, silver sparks erupted from her wand, but the spell refused to coalesce into a shield.

“Perhaps an opponent would help you learn,” Snape sneered from the front of the classroom. “You will pair up and take turns _non-verbally_ jinxing one another. Weasley, you will partner with Malfoy. Parkinson, with Granger.”

Ron’s lip curled, but he obediently joined Malfoy on the other side of the classroom, while Dean Thomas and Neville Longbottom paired up as dictated by the professor. Hermione found herself facing Pansy Parkinson, who immediately took the offensive and began trying to jinx the brunette witch. Hermione, still struggling with the shield charm, found herself sweating again, and when Parkinson succeeded in casting a non-verbal trip jinx, she fell to the floor with a cry she couldn’t quite stifle.

“Well done, Miss Parkinson. Five points to Slytherin,” Snape announced from a few metres away.

Hermione picked herself up to the sound of several Slytherins sniggering, and her cheeks flamed with embarrassment as she pushed a lock of damp hair behind one ear. Shockingly, she saw, Malfoy wasn’t one of the Slytherins laughing at her. He and Ron were just staring at one another, each casting furiously although most of their efforts failed. Ron didn’t give any indication that he’d noticed Hermione fall. Harry was casting her concerned looks from his place next to Seamus, and when she saw that, Hermione shook herself out of her embarrassment and cast once more at Pansy.

This time her wand was more responsive, and she successfully sent both trip and stinging jinxes at the other girl. The spells took more out of her than she expected, however, and when Pansy retaliated with a jelly-legs curse, Hermione couldn’t cast her shield spell in time and the curse struck with a force that sent her reeling to the floor. As the pug-faced Slytherin girl smirked, Hermione performed the counter-curse and stood on legs that still wobbled.

“Wand giving you trouble, Granger?” Pansy sing-songed, and more snickers filled the room. Snape frowned from his position at the front of the classroom and stared at Hermione for a moment, but did not reprimand Pansy for her taunting.

Hermione pursed her lips and raised her wand once more, ignoring the way sweat trickled between her shoulder blades under her shirt.

Across the room, Ron studied Draco’s wand movements carefully. The Slytherin boy had successfully jinxed him with a _rictumsempra_ , but Ron had caught him with both a jelly-legs jinx and a stinging hex. The blond had struggled to cast the shield charm, and Ron pressed his advantage as he cast another stinging hex. The other boy grunted in pain and retaliated with a wand movement that didn’t work.

Draco’s lips twisted in a sneer and he cast something that slammed into Ron with what felt like the force of a herd of hippogriffs. The redhead hiccoughed as the spell drove him into the stone wall behind him and forced the breath from his lungs. He glared at Draco as he pushed himself away from the wall with his free hand and swung his wand in a violent movement in Draco’s direction. The spell flared from his wand and the silent _diffindo_ spell tore a great rent across Draco’s black robes and the snowy white starched shirt beneath.

Throughout the room, other students stopped to watch Ron and Draco’s impromptu duel. A thin red line appeared on the Slytherin boy’s pale skin where the spell had scratched his skin after tearing apart his clothes, but he didn’t seem to notice. Instead he swept his wand in a snapping motion to cast a spell that failed, followed by a _diffindo_ of his own that was partially absorbed by a hastily cast shield charm yet still tore off half of Ron’s left sleeve. While Ron was still pulling at his sleeve, Draco cast again, and Ron barely dodged the _reducto_ that tore a chunk out of the stones behind him.

When Ron, panting, countered with another _diffindo_ that tore a gash in Draco’s pant leg, Professor Snape finally intervened.

“Enough!” The word left Snape’s lips even as Ron raised his wand again. By this time the entire class was staring at the two boys even as the professor swept across the room with his black woollen robes billowing behind him.

“Exactly _what_ do you think you are doing?” the professor demanded as he reached Ron and Draco. “Twenty points from Gryffindor, Weasley, for duelling in my class.” He turned to Draco. “Mr Malfoy, we will discuss _your_ behaviour this evening.

“Now, repair your robes,” he snarled. “Nott, work with Malfoy for the remainder of the class. Weasley, with Miss Brown.” As the room remained dead silent, Snape’s upper lip curled in a sneer and he drawled, “Now. Unless you _all_ want twenty points taken from your houses.”

Ron and Draco stared at each other one last time. Draco was the first to look away, and he tapped first his shirt and then his pant leg and robes with his wand as he muttered quick, successive _reparos_. He hurried away to work with Theodore Nott, as Snape had dictated.

Ron was still repairing his own clothes when Lavender Brown arrived a moment later. “What was _that_ about?” she asked in a whisper as she drew close to him under the pretext of examining his spellwork. Ron’s hair was mussed from when he’d slammed against the wall, and his eyes were wild as he met Lavender’s.

“I don’t – bloody Malfoy, he wanted to –” Before he could say more, Snape glared at them both, and Lavender hurried to cast a mild stinging jinx at Ron, who sighed and cast yet another shaky, silent shield.

After class, he hurried away before either Harry or Hermione could ask him what happened. Hermione shouldered her bag and looked at Harry as they left the classroom. “I think you had better go try and talk to Ron,” Hermione advised.

“But Hermione, aren’t you and he..?” Harry trailed off as Hermione shook her head in a flurry of voluminous brown hair.

“I need to get to Arithmancy,” she blurted, and rushed off before her friend could say anything more. He didn’t see her slow down as soon as she turned the corner, already out of breath.

* * *

The hospital wing had a certain smell to it: cotton bandages and antiseptic cleaning spells, with faint whiffs of the potions Poppy Pomfrey used to treat her patients. It was a familiar enough smell for Hermione, given how many times she’d been a patient over the years. More often she was a visitor, checking on Harry or Ron when they were injured.

She’d promised Harry that she would see Madam Pomfrey, and in truth she wasn’t opposed to the idea. The healers at St Mungos had been of no help at all: the first had practically labelled her a hysterical female, and the second had told her that Professor Snape’s potions were the best the wizarding world had to offer.

The rest of the students were eating lunch and so the wing was largely deserted. Nearly as soon as Hermione stepped through the doorway Madam Pomfrey was there, bustling toward her in pale blue robes and an enormous white apron. “So early in the term, Miss Granger?” the witch asked with a hint of gentle exasperation.

Hermione flushed, but obediently followed as Madam Pomfrey led her to a bed at the back of the wing. She didn’t miss the frown on the witch’s face as she sat. Hermione was wearing a dark blue cotton dress underneath her open robes, and despite not being tight around the waist, it clung to her diminished frame.

“Well then, what can I do for you, Miss Granger?” The mediwitch had her wand out, but at her side.

“I’m… well, I’m still experiencing _symptoms_ , Madam,” Hermione began. “I’m queasy all the time, and nearly everything I eat upsets my stomach! And – the wounds aren’t gone, not entirely, even though I’ve been following your instructions exactly all summer.”

Her words caused a frown to appear on Madam Pomfrey’s face, and she swished her wand in a familiar diagnostic spell. “Well, it _was_ a very dark spell, Miss Granger. But you’ve been using dittany and murtlap…” Whatever the spell showed her made her frown deepen, and she hurried away, coming back a moment later with an array of vials and a paper bag floating behind her.

“It’s clear that you have a _very_ upset stomach, Miss Granger. I am prescribing a mild stomach-soother that you should take each morning for the next five days, and I’ll give you a dose now before your next class. You’ll also take nutrient potions each night; you’re mildly malnourished, likely from the upset.” She eyed Hermione. “The bag is full of chamomile-ginger tea; you may drink a cup whenever your stomach bothers you.”

Hermione accepted the pile of potions, packing them carefully into her rucksack. She left the tea on top. “Thank you, Madam Pomfrey. But – there’s something else.” Under the witch’s gaze she squirmed just a little. “My magic feels…off, somehow.”

The wand swished again, but the mediwitch just pursed her lips. “Try the nutrient potions, Miss Granger. Your magic is still maturing, and it needs quite a few calories to keep up as you practice each day. I suspect that the lack of food is what is affecting your magic.” She smiled, then, and patted Hermione’s knee lightly. “The potions should set you to rights.”

Hermione gave the mediwitch a sceptical look, but she nodded in agreement and stood, hefting her rucksack back over her shoulder. “Thank you again, Madam Pomfrey. I’ll try the potions and if I have any further issues, I’ll let you know.” She drank the vial of stomach-soothing potion that Madam Pomfrey held out to her, and left the hospital wing. It was still early enough that she thought she could drop off the potions bottles in Gryffindor Tower before the afternoon’s Potions class.

When Hermione was gone, Madam Pomfrey hurried to her office and tossed a handful of Floo powder into the small fireplace that warmed her office. When the flames turned green, she announced, “St Mungo’s,” and stuck her head into the fireplace.

At the hospital, a receptionist hurried in a flurry of sapphire blue robes to the connecting fireplace as Madam Pomfrey’s face appeared. “How can I help you, Madam?” he asked.

“I need to consult with Healer Epione,” the mediwitch announced.

* * *

Hundreds of kilometres to the south, and nearly a full kilometre beneath the ground, were the vaults of Gringotts. The cavernous spaces beneath London held hundreds of millions, if not billions, of galleons and thousands of priceless treasures. In the deepest parts of the caverns, many levels below the bank’s elegant lobby and even the high-security vaults that most wizards and witches saw, sat Vault 962½. A slender cave deep within the bedrock below Gringotts, this vault held only a single, small wooden table and large wooden board. Nailed into the board were hundreds and hundreds of ornate iron hooks, each labelled with a number from 1 to 965. Keys of many shapes and sizes hung on the hooks; some hooks did not have any keys, while others held one, two, or even more.

Sitting upon the wooden table was an enormous, black leather-bound tome. Periodically, the book would open of its own accord and turn to a neatly labelled page, and a name would be written into or crossed off the list by a long, golden-feathered quill.

On that particular morning, the book opened and turned to a page near the last third of itself. The quill neatly crossed off a name toward the middle of the page and wrote the date beneath it: September 2, 1996. The other names on the page were also crossed off and neatly dated. When the quill finished writing, a key appeared on the hook labelled 632.

As the ink dried on the page, a loud chime echoed throughout the vault. A moment later, the screech of a mine cart echoed outside, and a goblin in a neat, grey three-piece suit entered. The goblin reviewed the open page and shook his head, muttering in Gobbledegook. He left the vault and returned to his mine cart, which careened along the tracks through the ground beneath Gringotts until he arrived back at the surface. The goblin opened a plain wood door labelled “Research”, entered, and shut it firmly behind him.


	14. Letters from Gringotts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a scene that has been paraphrased from Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.

On their third day at Hogwarts, Hermione bounded from her bed feeling nearly as though she’d never been injured at all, and even the wounds across her chest and stomach seemed lighter, as if they’d done a month of healing overnight. Throughout the day she marvelled at just how _good_ she felt: there was one bout of weakness during Charms, and she still felt as though her magic wasn’t as strong as it should have been during Defence Against the Dark Arts, but her stomach barely hurt at all!

The afternoon brought with it the second Potions lesson of the year. Like Monday, it was the last official class of the day for the sixth years and was a double-length class. Unlike Monday, today Hermione felt as though she could brew whatever potion Professor Slughorn required of her; forty-eight hours ago, she had been too exhausted to do more than the bare minimum.

“Come in, come in,” Professor Slughorn invited jovially as the sixth year Gryffindors arrived at his classroom. “Today I have a special surprise for all of you! We’ll be brewing the Draught of Living Death, and there will be a prize for the best potion.”

As Hermione settled at her customary spot next to Harry, she looked over the large professor with curiosity. She hadn’t been paying nearly enough attention last time around, but today she could see that there was something faintly predatory in the way he looked over certain students. She couldn’t call it _hostile_ , exactly, but it struck her as deeply _odd_.

“Now then, can anyone tell me what this potion is for? Yes, you there, Miss..?”

Hermione lowered her hand. “Hermione Granger, professor. The Draught of Living Death can be used to place the drinker into a sleep so deep that they appear to be dead. The antidote is the Wiggenweld potion, which—”

“Very good, Miss Granger,” Professor Slughorn interrupted. “Any relation to Hector Dagworth-Granger? He was quite the potions master, in his day!”

Hermione’s eyebrows scrunched together. “Er, no, Professor. The name is just a coincidence. I’m muggleborn, you see.”

Slughorn looked faintly disappointed, but nodded his acceptance and continued, “The Draught of Living Death has _nefarious_ purposes, of course, but it can also be used by healers to place patients into a medical sleep when they are very ill. Turn to the potion in your books, page ten, and gather your ingredients.”

Hermione looked over the ingredients list quickly and then rose, along with Harry and Ron, to make her way to the potions cabinet. She measured out the asphodel, infusion of wormwood, and valerian root, and with only a minimal shudder selected a sloth brain and twelve sopophorous beans. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Harry select an extra bean but thought nothing of it as they returned to their seats.

“Now then, before you begin, today’s prize!” Slughorn announced. With plump fingers he plucked a tiny bottle from the front pocket of his red and grey plaid jacket, then held it before him. “ _This_ , my dear students, is a bottle of felix felicis. It’s _very_ difficult to brew, but a single sip will bring the drinker luck. The student who brews the very best Draught during this class will win this bottle. It’s against the rules to use during quidditch matches, of course, but I’m sure you could all find a use for liquid luck, hm?” Before the sudden chattering of students could grow too loud, Slughorn placed the vial on his desk and waved a hand expansively. “Now then, off you go!”

Hermione immediately set up her cauldron over a low fire as instructed, and filled a beaker with water and sea salt from her potions kit. While the water and salt sat in the beaker, she cut the sopophorous beans. The pearly white beans slid from beneath her knife more than once, but eventually Hermione was able to secure the juice from all twelve beans. With a sigh, she measured her powdered asphodel, as well as her infusion of wormwood. While the class was over an hour long, she knew that she would have barely enough time to brew the potion, and so she quickly set up the rest of the ingredients so that they would be easy to reach.

When the water had sat long enough, she added it to the warmed cauldron and added half of the wormwood infusion. From the corner of her eye she saw Harry crushing the beans with his silver dagger. “Harry,” she said, even as she tilted the cauldron and added the rest of the wormwood. “The instructions say to _cut_ the beans, not _crush_ them.”

“My book says to crush them,” Harry mumbled. He poured his beaker of water into his cauldron and added his wormwood just as she had.

“Shouldn’t all the books be the same?” Hermione would have said more, but as her potion began to steam it drew her attention away and she added the powdered asphodel, stirring clockwise twice. With only a slight grimace of disgust she added the sloth brain and allowed it to dissolve, briefly, before adding the juice of the sopophorous bean. She stirred the cauldron seven times, counter-clockwise, and let the potion settle. Her hair was starting to frizz from the steam of her cauldron, not to mention the rest of the cauldrons in the room, and Hermione impatiently pushed some of the mass out of her face.

Harry poured the juice of the sopophorous into his cauldron and stirred, adding a clockwise stir at the end. From there, he let it simmer over the burner as its colour gradually lightened. “Here, see?” he said, pushing the book toward Hermione. “Thirteen beans, crushed. The recipe says that it produces more juice that way.”

Hermione frowned deeply and looked over the modified recipe. The directions had clearly been altered by hand; she’d forgotten, in Monday’s haze, that Harry had been given a used textbook by Slughorn. “But Harry…you don’t know whether these instructions are correct. Potions-making is very precise. What if this _ruins_ the potion?”

“I don’t think it will. Something tells me the last owner of this book was really good at potions.”

Hermione huffed, but turned her attention back to her cauldron, where the potion inside was becoming lighter at a slower pace than Harry’s. She’d followed the instructions _precisely_ ; surely her potion would be better than his. The thought made her pause for a moment – since when did she need to be better than Harry? – but she shook her head and turned her attention to carefully cleaning up her workspace. When Slughorn announced that all students should be ladling their potions into beakers, Hermione obediently ladled her now-lavender potion into the beaker she’d reserved for that purpose.

“Now then, let’s have a look!” Professor Slughorn announced. He tucked his thumbs into the suspenders beneath his jacket as he paced to each student’s desk. Some potions, like Ron’s, were still fairly dark, and Slughorn tsked over more than a few. He nodded approvingly over Draco Malfoy’s and Padma Patil’s potions before crossing the classroom to look over Harry and Hermione’s efforts.

“Well, Mister Potter! This is excellent work!” he boomed, and Hermione’s eyes widened in shock. “Have a look, everyone, at how pale Mister Potter’s potion is. He’s gotten the closest to the ideal of the Draught.”

Ron clapped Harry on the shoulder, congratulating him, as Slughorn handed Harry the tiny bottle of liquid luck potion. The other students – Draco Malfoy not included – clapped politely.

Hermione, however, was staring at her potion in dismay. She’d followed the instructions _exactly_. She’d stirred precisely the number of times that the book instructed, while Harry had followed the scribblings of some other sixth year!

When they’d packed up and left the classroom, Hermione grabbed Harry’s arm to keep him from running off right away. “Harry, I want to see your potions book. I’m glad it wasn’t wrong about _this_ potion, but it’s not right to just…run off and use the notes of some anonymous student.”

Harry took the book out of his bag and handed it over. His lips thinned in obvious irritation and he blew a breath upwards, ruffling hair that was nearly as messy at Hermione’s from the classroom’s heat. He watched Hermione open it and leaf through the well-worn pages while Ron stood nearby. “It’s just a _book_ , Hermione.”

The witch ignored him while she looked it over. There were adjustments to every single potion, and hundreds of notes in the margins and at the end of each chapter. “The handwriting is familiar,” she finally said, “But I can’t quite place it. But _Harry_ , I don’t think you should be using this. Some of the changes might be dangerous!”

“It’s not dangerous, Hermione. For all you know, Slughorn could be planning to teach us these changes later in the year,” Ron chimed in, and Hermione turned her attention to him with a sweep of bushy hair, eyes practically sparking in their anger.

“Well he _didn’t_ teach these changes today. Harry, if Professor Slughorn was planning to make changes to the potions in our textbook, he would have done that! Having these notes – it’s a bit like _cheating._ ”

“It’s not _cheating!_ ” Harry’s voice echoed in the dark stone hallway, and a passing first year Slytherin nearly dropped his books, startled by the sudden shout, before scurrying past the trio. “Slughorn wouldn’t have given me the book if it was, Hermione. You’re just angry that I’m finally better than you at something!”

The words made Hermione draw back, her cheeks drained of all colour, and she hitched her bag higher on her shoulder. “That is _not_ what it is,” she hissed. “You might have been able to use some…some mystery student’s book to win a stupid contest, but it might just make your next potion blow up in your face!”

Without another word, she spun on her heel and hurried away. Once she was out of Harry and Ron’s presence, however, it only took a moment for her righteous anger to drain and leave her feeling embarrassed. _You handled that rather terribly, didn’t you?_ She berated herself as she stopped to lean against a wall and take a deep breath.

* * *

For the first time in a very long time, Hermione avoided Harry and Ron at dinner, and ate a few quick bites before leaving the Great Hall in favour of the library. With Harry in mind, she looked for the books that she just knew had to be there: books on what it meant to be a Head of House, or a Noble in the magical world. She’d promised to research it for him, after all.

The books were harder to find than she’d thought, but finally, after her Prefect’s rounds, she hurried back to the Gryffindor common room and to Harry, who was snoozing on a sofa in front of the fireplace. So far north, it was already cool at night, particularly in an old stone castle, and Hermione gratefully settled onto the seat next to him to warm herself.

“Hermione?” the word was mumbled as Harry roused, his bright green eyes blinking sleepily as he noticed her a moment later.

“Harry, you _have_ to become the Head of House Potter and House Black,” Hermione announced after she looked around to see who else might be listening. Her words were quiet, but insistent, and they brought Harry to full wakefulness.

“What do you mean? What did you find?” he asked.

In the firelight, newly awake, eyes locked on hers, and with his hair messier than ever, he looked nearly as attractive as he did playing quidditch, and Hermione swallowed hard. Why had she been so angry with him earlier? And when had she started to think that her best friend was _attractive?_ In a flash she was taken back to that moment in the competitors’ tent at the Triwizard Tournament, when she’d grabbed him and held on tight just before he had to face a Hungarian Horntail. Maybe it was then, when she’d been terrified for him, for what Harry would have to face, but he’d been determined to do it, determined to survive –

“Hermione?” Harry prompted again, and she flushed deeply.

“S-Sorry,” she replied, and dug around in her bag. She pulled out a small scroll of parchment, and handed it over. “I took notes. Harry, if you become Head of House for both of the families you’ll be an adult – right away. You’ll be able to practice magic without the Ministry chasing after you. You’ll be able to choose where you live!”

Harry stared at her and blinked, slowly. “You mean that I won’t have to go back to the Dursleys?” he asked, after a moment. He unrolled the scroll that she’d pushed into his hands, and looked over the neat, precise notes Hermione had taken. “This says that the houses are ‘Most Ancient and Noble.’ What’s that mean?”

“It means you’ll be Head of two of the most important wizarding families in the _country_.” At her friend’s continued look of confusion, she added, “I’m not sure you understand. If you claim Head of House status you can claim a seat and a vote on the Wizengamot. You can _change things_ , Harry.”

When he didn’t respond, Hermione leaned in and gave his shoulder a little shake. “You have to get to Gringotts. Because you’re the last of the Potters, there’s only so much time before the line goes dormant and you _can’t_ claim it, magically.”

This time, Harry’s emerald-green eyes, darker just then, rose to meet hers. “How long?” he asked.

“How long until what?”

“How long until it goes dormant?” His voice had an edge to it, and it made Hermione sit up straighter at the near-growl.

“Well,” she temporized. “It could be as early as your seventeenth birthday, for House Potter. The line has been languishing because of your father’s death, according to the books I read.

“Because you are Sirius’ _designated_ heir you might have a little more time to claim the Black family. Although…in that case it wouldn’t go _dormant_ because Malfoy is still alive. It might devolve to him, first,” Hermione finished.

Harry made a face. “I’ll write to Ripnok.” He took Hermione’s hand and squeezed it gently. Hermione’s heart turned over but at the same time her fingers tingled as though they’d been hit with a mild stinging hex. She thought it might be static electricity, the castle had been rather dry the last few days after all, but it felt different.

Harry leaned in closer, but then he eyed their joined hands and pulled away, as though he’d felt the same sting. “In fact, I’ll do it right now and send Hedwig tonight.” He started to rise, but a sound of protest from Hermione stopped him.

“Maybe you’d better send a different owl,” Hermione suggested when Harry’s attention returned to her. “Hedwig is just so recognizable.”

Seeing the dawning recognition in Harry’s eyes, she continued, “If someone sees you sending out Hedwig, they might try to stop her.”

Harry blanched, and stood fully. “I’ll send a school owl. Thanks, Hermione.” Before she could say anything else, Harry was gone. She’d meant to apologize to him for earlier – but maybe he felt that helping him was enough of an apology for now.

* * *

The fifth day of term brought with it a surprisingly substantial parliament of owls: dozens soared through the Great Hall during breakfast, bringing with them piles of items forgotten at home and copies of the _Daily Prophet_. As Harry ate his egg in a basket, a familiar barn owl with the Gringotts seal around its neck swooped in overhead and dropped a letter nearly on top of his plate. He offered the owl a piece of sausage, which it ate in two bites before flying off.

“News from Gringotts, then?” Hermione asked. She was already looking much better than she had just a few days ago, Harry thought; there was extra colour in her cheeks and she’d arrived for breakfast on time. She was even eating like her old self, instead of picking at her food. Oh, she wasn’t keeping up with Ron, who was eagerly dining from a plate piled high with eggs, bacon, sausages, toast, and fried mushrooms. But she was eating.

Before Harry could respond, a European eagle-owl swooped in and dropped a letter in front of Hermione. A gleaming, golden Gringotts seal flashed in the light before the owl took off, with two rashers of bacon having been devoured as payment.

Hermione cautiously picked up the letter and turned it over. The seal marked the letter as having been sent from Gringotts. “I don’t understand,” she murmured before breaking the seal holding the envelope shut. “Why would they contact _me?_ I don’t even have an account.” With confusion in her eyes, Hermione pulled the letter out of its envelope and began to read.

_Miss Hermione J. Granger_

_Gryffindor House_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Dear Miss Granger:_

_Gringotts Wizarding Bank requests your presence at our headquarters in Diagon Alley no later than 15 September regarding the matter of the estate of The Right Honourable Baroness Vida Dagworth-Granger. Please send an owl to confirm a date and time convenient to you as soon as possible._

_Ripnok_

_Department of Wizarding Trusts and Estates_

_Gringotts Wizarding Bank_

_Diagon Alley, London_

“Why, this must be a mistake,” Hermione murmured as she read over the letter a second time and examined the official Gringotts seal beneath Ripnok’s signature. “I’ve never even _heard_ of Vida Dagworth-Granger.” She handed the short note to Harry, who read it while Ron looked over his shoulder at the terse request.

“I bet she was related to that Hector bloke Slughorn mentioned yesterday,” Harry observed.

“You’d better go to McGonagall, Hermione. The goblins don’t like it when their “requests” are ignored – Bill says last time a wizard ignored a Gringotts letter he ended up missing a leg,” Ron said in between bites of the eggs on his plate.

Harry nodded in agreement as he handed the letter back to Hermione. “We can go together,” he suggested. “Professor McGonagall will know what to do – we can’t be the only students who have needed to make a trip to Gringotts while at Hogwarts. Someone named Archin wants to see me as soon as possible about…well, you know.”

At Hermione’s nod, Harry ignored Ron’s suspicious look and buttered another piece of toast.

* * *

After Transfiguration later that day, Hermione lingered at her desk while the other students trickled out of the classroom. Harry lingered in the background, packing his books and tidying his desk.

“Professor,” she began, “I wonder if you could have a look at this. I think it must be a mistake, but…” She trailed off, and simply held the note out toward the dark-haired deputy headmistress.

Professor McGonagall looked over the note briefly before her eyes rose to peer at the young Gryffindor witch over her half-moon spectacles. “Miss Granger, Gringotts rarely makes mistakes, and Ripnok is the head of his department. You had best respond to this summons,” she announced crisply. Then, pausing at Hermione’s look of uncertainty, her tone softened. “Perhaps it _is_ a misunderstanding, and if it is, I’m sure it’s easily cleared up.”

Still, Hermione hesitated again. A heavy feeling sat in her chest, an anxiousness that had begun to surface more frequently since she woke up in the hospital wing after the Department of Mysteries. “I suppose…it will have to be next Friday, I think, so that I don’t miss any classes.”

Professor McGonagall’s lips curved with a hint of a smile. “Would you like me to accompany you, Miss Granger? Why don’t you write to Ripnok and ask him if that would be acceptable?”

“Professor,” Harry interrupted, and stepped forward with his own letter. “Perhaps I could accompany you and Hermione as well? Gringotts has requested that I take care of some…family concerns as soon as possible.”

McGonagall’s eyes raked over Harry as she took the letter from her other favourite Gryffindor, and her lips thinned as she read over the missive from Gringotts. “Yes, Mister Potter, you had better come as well. You should both send a letter to Gringotts informing them that we will be at Gringotts next Friday afternoon.”

Hermione nodded, her hair falling into her eyes for a moment, and looked at Harry. “Thank you, Professor,” she said politely. “We’ll send a response today. And…” She hesitated, looking at Professor McGonagall. “Just…thank you.” Harry and Hermione both left with a wave of dismissal from the Deputy Headmistress. When the classroom door closed behind them, Ron was there, and he looked none too happy to have been left out of the conversation.

“Well?” he demanded, and edged closer to Hermione, who looked softer, suddenly, and yet just as suddenly tired.

“We’re going next Friday,” Hermione finally said. “Professor McGonagall says that Gringotts doesn’t make mistakes very often, and that I’d best go there to get it sorted out.”

“ _We_?”

Harry frowned at the tone in Ron’s voice, but he added, “Professor McGonagall agreed to accompany Hermione and me. The goblins need to talk to me, too – and the Professor thought it would be best to make one trip.”

“So you’re going to Gringotts together. Without me.” Ron’s voice was practically a monotone, but he kept looking between Harry and Hermione, as though he expected one to suddenly leap for the other.

“Yes, Ron. Hermione and I are going to Gringotts with Professor McGonagall so that the goblins don’t take one of our _legs_ , as you so helpfully described this morning,” Harry answered.

“Well why can’t I come with you, then? It’ll be a Friday afternoon, it’s not like we’d be missing classes, yeah?” Ron’s voice had roughened, and he was staring at Hermione as he said it.

“Well…students aren’t really _allowed_ out of Hogwarts except during holidays and Hogsmeade weekends,” Hermione explained, haltingly. “I imagine the Professor is able to make an exception because it’s official business.”

“And it’s just a coincidence that you _both_ have ‘official business’ with Gringotts?” Ron retorted.

“Yes, it’s just a _coincidence,_ ” Harry replied, his tone exasperated. “Or maybe the goblins send these things when they have a few students to bother so that the teachers don’t have to make so many trips. It’s a trip to a _bank_ with our Head of House, Ron. What’s the matter with you?”

Harry expected Hermione to agree with him; after all, she seemed just as baffled as he was by Ron’s anger.

“Ron,” Hermione said in a soothing tone, “You’re right, it’s a little odd, but it _is_ just a trip to a bank. Professor McGonagall will Apparate us there and back in an hour or two.” Her tone earned a look from Harry, but she was busy looking at Ron.

“But what does Gringotts want with a _muggleborn_ , Hermione? I know what they want with the bloody Boy-Who-Lived, but _you_?” The words seemed to slap Hermione in the face and she backed up a step.

“I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding, but it’s one I need to go take care of,” Hermione responded. Her tone was subdued, and Harry bristled at the way she was backing down from Ron – again.

“Whatever it is, we’ll take care of it, and it’s got nothing to do with my being the ‘bloody Boy-Who-Lived’, Ron! I have to deal with Gringotts because my parents and Sirius are _dead_ and Dumbledore—”

“ _Headmaster_ Dumbledore,” Hermione corrected.

“—Kept all of this from me until I figured it out on my own this summer. Don’t you _get it_?” Harry stormed off before Ron could say anything more.

When Harry had disappeared down the hall, Ron leaned in closer to Hermione and frowned down at her. “I don’t like that you’re going off and doing things without me,” he said, and watched conflicting emotions play across her face.

“Ronald, I’m not ‘going off without you’, I’m taking care of what is probably a _rare_ mistake by Gringotts,” Hermione said quietly. “And I don’t appreciate your calling me a muggleborn as though it’s a bad thing.”

“Aw, I didn’t mean it like _that_ , Hermione. You know I don’t think it’s a bad thing,” Ron protested. He leaned down to kiss her, but Hermione turned her head and his lips just brushed her cheek.

When Ron opened his mouth again, she shook her head. “I have to study for Charms,” she announced, and quickly walked down the hall in the opposite direction of their mutual best friend.

Ron just scrubbed a hand through his hair and looked up toward the ceiling as if appealing to a higher power. “I’ll never understand birds,” he muttered quietly. With a shake of his head, he followed the same path Harry had taken, intent on heading down to the quidditch pitch for some practice. The try outs for the Gryffindor team were taking place in a few days, and he needed all the practice he could get if he wanted to be Gryffindor’s new keeper.


	15. Interlude: A Preference for Blond(e)s

The quidditch pitch was nearly deserted as Ron exited the shadows of the locker room and stepped onto the close-cropped grass with broom in hand. There was one student in the air, but he or she – he couldn’t tell from so far away – was practicing what looked to be a sloth-grip roll down by one set of goal posts. Looking up towards the stands, he saw that another student was sitting in the stands near the posts: a spotter, he reckoned, in case anything happened to the flyer.

It occurred to Ron that perhaps he should have found himself a spotter as well, but just as quickly he dismissed the thought: someone was already up in the stands. They could call for help just as easily as anyone else if he needed it, and anyway he’d been flying for years and using his broom for months and months. With a grunt, he mounted his Cleansweep Eleven and kicked off, rising high into the air over the pitch.

Ron made his way toward the other set of goal posts in a somewhat leisurely fashion; he had hours, still, before supper and there was no need to rush. Once by the goals, however, he picked up speed and swung into a double eight loop, repeating the move several times as he sped back and forth between all three hoops. He practiced his own sloth-grip roll, which he knew he might need to avoid bludgers if Harry’s picks for beaters didn’t do their jobs, and worked on his starfish and stick – not that he was at all good at it. He nearly fell, once, when his ankle started slipping off of the broom, but recovered and slid himself back onto the broom with a grunt.

As the sun lowered toward the horizon, the other students left, and Ron found himself flying back and forth across the expanse of the pitch. Despite the relative warmth of early September and the fact that it was Friday, there didn’t seem to be anyone else outside. He practiced a manoeuvre every so often, but his thoughts drifted far from quidditch. They settled first on his impromptu duel with Draco Malfoy on the first day of term. He didn’t know what had come over him: the arrogant blond git pissed him off, but he usually knew better than to tangle with Malfoy in the middle of Snape’s class. Snape already hated him for being a Gryffindor and Harry’s friend – he didn’t need to add to it by attacking his favourite student.

There had been something so _intense_ about Malfoy, though, in that classroom. The way they’d stared at one another and fought had invigorated him; it was as if they were duelling partners and not two sixth years practicing non-verbal spells. It was the first time Ron could remember getting something right so quickly. They’d both failed at casting at one another, he and Draco, but his spells had hit the Slytherin and shielded him more often than they’d sputtered out or hadn’t worked. Even with the training as part of the DA and the fight in the Department of Mysteries last school year, he hadn’t expected to be quite so good at non-verbal casting.

Ron hadn’t been able to pay attention to anyone at all except Malfoy, before Snape had broken them apart. He found out only later that Hermione had struggled and been laughed at by the Slytherins for falling. Even after Snape made him work with Lavender Brown, his thoughts had been stuck on his duel with Malfoy. Granted, duelling with Lavender hadn’t exactly been a trial: she was awfully pretty, with blonde hair, big eyes, and curves that weren’t quite hidden by her school robes.

He swooped down the pitch again, and his thoughts turned to Hermione. _That_ whole thing was going pear-shaped quickly. She’d seemed so interested in him at the Burrow over the summer, flirting and letting him kiss her, even if she’d sometimes played hard to get and had been ill half the time. But she’d cooled toward him just as soon as they’d gotten on the train to Hogwarts.

Ron could admit to himself, when he wasn’t with Hermione, that they’d cooled somewhat for _him_ , as well. Oh, he still got a twist in his belly whenever he looked at her, even though she was kind of _plain._ But away from her…he thought again of pretty Lavender, and of the way they’d sparred almost playfully at the end of that first Defence class. Her soft features were replaced in his mind by a sharper, paler face, and he nearly fell off his broom at the shock. He shook his head quickly to dispel the image. He wasn’t _like that_.

With another grunt, the redhead brought himself back down to earth by the locker rooms and dismounted. It was almost time for supper and he was starving.

When he’d showered and stored his broom and quidditch gear, Ron hurried to the Great Hall. He was one of the earliest to arrive, but Dean and Seamus were at the Gryffindor table, so he sat down with them and waited for the table to fill itself with the bounty of Hogwarts’ kitchens. Each house’s table filled up gradually as students trickled in from various parts of the castle. Ron chatted amiably enough with Seamus, who regaled both him and Dean with a story of how he’d seen the Kenmare Kestrels play the Wimbourne Wasps the previous summer in an exhibition match.

Harry and Hermione were further down the table, whispering quietly to one another; he caught Ginny looking at them when the two were too absorbed in each other to notice, and wondered briefly at the taut look on her face. Turning his attention back to his roommates, Ron noticed that Dean and Seamus were sitting awfully close to one another.

Before he could think on why he’d noticed and what it might mean, Professor Dumbledore stood from his seat at the staff table and waved a hand. Instantly, the tables filled with platter after platter of roast chicken, enormous bowls of smashed potatoes and vegetables of various kinds, baskets of warm bread, and ice-cold pitchers of water and pumpkin juice. Ron eagerly reached for the chicken nearest his plate; just then he thought he could eat half a chicken. Or maybe three-quarters of one.


	16. Back to Gringotts

The next several days leading up to Harry and Hermione’s appointments at Gringotts were excruciating. Though he’d dropped Divination from his schedule, Harry already found himself using the weekend and then every spare moment of time in between classes to complete the homework assigned to him by each professor. Professor Slughorn, despite his easy-going nature, was a taskmaster and had already assigned two essays: one on the Draught of Living Death and the second on the proper techniques for preservation of the sloth brain used in said draught.

Professor Flitwick had assigned an essay on the aguamenti charm after the very first class, as well as copious reading assignments, and Professor McGonagall had them practicing nonverbal transfigurations that left half of the students in her classes red-faced and exhausted from holding their breaths and trying to _will_ their spells to work. This was to say nothing of Professors Sprout and Snape, whose reading assignments were both difficult and boring enough to make even Hermione drowsy.

On Wednesday, after their double Potions class was over, Harry trailed after Ron and Hermione, who were talking quietly. Harry had used the potions book again, much to Hermione’s transparent chagrin, and his potion had been judged superior to hers by Slughorn. The familiar tightness in his chest increased as he watched his two best friends and not for the first time he reminded himself that he wanted them to be _happy_. He couldn’t dwell on that, however, as a first year Gryffindor came pelting up to him and stopped, panting, when he reached Harry.

“Ha—Harry, Professor McGonagall wants to see you and Hermione right away,” he gasped out. Hermione stopped immediately, and turned her attention to Harry. She looked tired again, he thought, and wondered if she was just studying too hard or if her injury was bothering her again. He knew that she’d seen Madam Pomfrey already, but something still didn’t seem quite right about her.

“We’d better go, then, Harry,” Hermione prompted, and Harry shook his head free from his thoughts.

“Right,” he agreed, and looked at Ron out of the corner of his eye. The other boy’s ears were starting to turn red and he opened his mouth, but Hermione just shook her head quickly.

“It must be important, Ron,” she said, pre-empting him. “I’ll tell you what’s happened just as soon as we’ve spoken to the Professor.”

She received a grunt in return, but Harry just turned and strode down the hallway. He knew she would follow, and she did, her footsteps echoing against the stone walls as she followed. Soon, however, her breathing began to echo as well, and Harry stopped, waiting for her.

“Do you think you should see Madam Pomfrey again?” he asked, when Hermione caught up and stood with flushed cheeks and damp temples by his side. “It’s just – I’m worried about you…” he trailed off.

“I’m fine, Harry. I just have shorter legs than you do,” Hermione said, her words clipped. “Let’s just get to Professor McGonagall.”

Harry opened his mouth to object but shrugged a little and continued walking. He moved more slowly this time, to allow Hermione to more easily keep up with him. He didn’t quite understand why she was so irritated with him, or why her response made _him_ so angry – he just wanted to make sure she was taking care of herself! It didn’t help, he reflected, that Ron seemed oblivious to the fact that she still wasn’t well. Perhaps he was angry because he was the only one who thought that there was a problem.

“I wish you’d let me take another look at that potions book,” Hermione said suddenly, and Harry glanced at her as they climbed up the first staircase.

“It’s just a book.”

“The handwriting is just so _familiar_ , Harry. And your potion was praised by Slughorn again this afternoon, while mine was just…average. So was Malfoy’s, and I heard that he received an “O” on his OWLs.”

Harry shrugged, but though he wanted to ask Hermione if she thought that he wasn’t capable of making a quality potion, he bit his tongue.

“What do you think McGonagall wants?” he asked after a few minutes, when they’d reached the entrance hall. He tried to stifle his concern when he saw how Hermione still seemed to be struggling to keep up, and tried to slow down his pace even more.

“I don’t know – maybe it’s something about Friday,” Hermione replied. “She doesn’t usually summon students in the middle of the day, though – why wouldn’t she just come find us at supper?”

As if just asking the question made her think something must be wrong, Hermione picked up her pace and Harry followed as they took another set of stairs and walked down a long corridor to their Head of House’s office.

When they arrived and entered the office after knocking, Professor McGonagall was standing by the fireplace. She was wearing a light cloak, despite the fact that she was indoors, and there was a large jar of floo powder on the mantle. She turned as the two Gryffindors entered, and gestured briefly toward the chairs. “Sit, please, Mr Potter, Miss Granger.”

When they did as told, the professor pointed her wand at the door behind them and Harry jumped a little at the sound of the lock sliding into place. The wand pointed again, and Harry clenched his jaw as he felt more than saw an Imperturbable Charm slide into place.

“There has been a change in plans,” the professor announced, and Harry and Hermione exchanged a look of confusion. “The _Headmaster_ has expressed a strenuous objection to either of you leaving the school.” Her lips firmed into a thin line and twisted as though she’d eaten something sour.

“So – we cannot go to Gringotts on Friday?” Hermione asked, when all three had sat in silence for a moment. 

The words made Professor McGonagall’s lips twist even further. “In fact, Miss Granger, while the Headmaster is the magical guardian for both of you while you are minors, he cannot stop you from completing official business at Gringotts.”

While the words weren’t surprising to Harry – Dumbledore had clearly been keeping secrets, and the goblins had told him that Dumbledore was his guardian – the same could not be said for Hermione, judging by her expression.

“But – why would Professor Dumbledore want to stop us from going to the _bank_?” she asked, eyes darting between Harry and the professor.

“Maybe for the same reason that he didn’t tell me anything about the Potter accounts, or that he was my magical guardian,” Harry theorized. He could hear the edge in his voice, and took a deep breath to calm himself.

Professor McGonagall shook her head. “I cannot speculate on what the Headmaster’s motivations might be, but I also cannot condone keeping you from the bank for some amorphous reason. While he has _tried_ to forbid me from accompanying you on Friday, which would mean that you effectively cannot leave the castle as you may not leave unaccompanied,” she smirked, “He did not forbid me from accompanying you _today_. I have sent a message to Ripnok, and he has agreed to an appointment with each of you in twenty minutes.”

“Oh, but – Professor, how will we get to Diagon Alley on time?” Hermione asked. “It’s rather a long walk to apparate from Hogsmeade, isn’t it?”

The professor picked up the jar of floo powder from the mantle. “We will be flooing, Miss Granger. Bring your bags with you, yes – and hurry, now.”

Harry and Hermione stood cautiously and joined the older witch by the fireplace. At her instruction they each took a handful of floo powder.

“Our first destination is Urquart Cottage.”

Harry obediently threw his handful of powder into the fireplace and announced the destination as instructed. He spun past a few fires within the floo network, but it was only a short time later that he slid out of the flames into a quiet, immaculately clean cottage. He scrambled out of the way not a moment too soon, as Hermione and then Professor McGonagall followed.

When Dumbledore entered McGonagall’s office a few minutes later, it was empty and the ashes in the fireplace were ice cold. His eyebrows raised in bemusement as he looked around for evidence of where his deputy might have gone. After a moment, he pulled out his wand and cast a spell that shimmered in the air. When nothing happened, he pursed his lips and left the office in a swirl of purple crushed velvet robes.

* * *

In the cottage, Hermione looked around curiously, but before she could ask any questions, the professor pulled the jar of floo powder from a pocket within her burgundy-hued robes. “We will be flooing directly into Gringotts, next.”

The two students exchanged yet another look, but Harry took up another handful of floo powder and once more found himself streaming past dozens of fireplaces. This time the journey was longer; he wasn’t sure where Urquart Cottage was, or who it belonged to for that matter, but it couldn’t have been in London.

Eventually, he slowed down, and slid out of yet another hearth to find himself on the marble floor of a conference room. There were two goblins facing the fireplace, and Harry gulped as their eyes turned to him – along with the spears they carried. He stood, slowly, with his arms out to his sides. “Er, I have an appointment,” he offered, as Professor McGonagall and finally Hermione stepped out of the fireplace far more gracefully than his efforts.

Professor McGonagall nodded her head regally to the two goblins, both of whom straightened up and lowered their spears at the sight of her. A third goblin stood from a chair at the far end of the room and made his way over to the trio. It was Ripnok, Harry realized immediately, and he relaxed a touch at the presence of a familiar face.

“Miss McGonagall, Mister Potter, and Miss Granger, I presume,” the goblin greeted in his slightly nasal voice. “I did not expect your request to move up your appointments, but I heard there was some…interference?”

Professor McGonagall offered a short nod. “Indeed. Thank you for agreeing to see Mister Potter and Miss Granger earlier than planned, Ripnok,” she replied, her Scottish brogue more clipped than usual.

“Of course – Mister Potter is a significant account holder here at Gringotts,” Ripnok said easily. “Now then, Mister Potter, have a seat at the conference table, here. Your account manager, Archin, will be with you momentarily. Miss McGonagall, Miss Granger, if you’ll follow me? We’ll speak in my offices.”

Hermione tensed up, but gave Harry one uneasy smile in parting before she followed Professor McGonagall out of the room.

As Harry sat down in a padded, dark brown leather chair, he looked around briefly. The oval table before him was inlaid with a pattern of blond wood. The walls were painted a neutral cream colour and trimmed with bright white moulding. Compared to Ripnok’s office it looked positively modern.

Fortunately, Harry didn’t have long to wait, as a squat goblin in a navy blue, pin-striped suit opened the far door of the conference room and bustled toward the chair across from him.

“Mister Potter, is it?” the goblin asked, and Harry stood, reaching out to shake his hand. The goblin’s eyes widened slightly, but he placed his hand in Harry’s and they shook briefly before both sat in their respective chairs. “I am Archin, the account manager for both the Potter and Black accounts here at Gringotts. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Harry subtly observed Archin as the goblin opened a large black folio and thumbed through a series of papers. He decided that the goblin must be rather old, as he had two shocks of white hair sticking up from around large, drooping ears. Interestingly, the goblin didn’t wear any spectacles, which seemed unusual based on how many tellers – and Ripnok – seemed to need them.

“I understand that you are aware of the fact that you are now the owner of several vaults, but that you do not have a full understanding of the contents or the investments tied to each of the Potter and Black accounts. Is that correct?”

When Harry nodded, the goblin cleared his throat and pushed a set of parchments across the table to the wizard. “Let’s start with the Potter accounts, then, as they’re simpler.”

Over the course of the next hour, Harry learned more about wizarding _and_ muggle finances and investments than he ever thought he would need to know. While the Potters had made modest investments in the muggle world, to his great shock the Black family had invested millions of pounds in muggle stocks, bonds, and mutual funds in both British and international markets. Between the Potter accounts, his trust accounts, and the accounts belonging to Sirius and the Black family, he had access to over five million galleons.

That didn’t count the investments, which Archin explained were spread across a number of both wizarding and muggle corporations. “Your grandfather was the inventor of Sleekeazy’s,” Archin explained. “The wealth left to your father, James, is largely derived from the sale of the potions and later the sale of the company. Your portfolio includes a few shares of the company.

“You also have substantial shares in several muggle weapons companies through the Black family investments,” Archin remarked neutrally, and at Harry’s expression of disgust he offered to go over the full portfolio and make recommendations based on the boy’s preferences.

There were a number of properties as well, Archin explained. Beyond the half-destroyed house in Godric’s Hollow, there was an estate in Corsham that his grandparents had lived in and that his father had, briefly, owned when Fleamont and Euphemia Potter died. From the Black family, Harry had received three properties besides Grimmauld Place: a second manor in Corsham, an estate on the Isle of Skye, and a penthouse-level cooperative apartment on the east side of Central Park in New York City. “I recommend you keep that, Mister Potter. It is a sound investment, despite the monthly upkeep,” Archin commented. “It could be worth quite a lot someday.”

Tea was brought by a silent goblin and Harry sipped on a bracing cup of Assam as he tried to absorb the sheer _level_ of wealth that had found its way to him. His head was spinning, even though Archin had patiently shared document after document detailing the Potter and Black family’s assets.

“I do strongly suggest, as have my colleagues, that you take up your Head of House status,” Archin finally said as he watched Harry.

Harry nodded, briefly. “It’s clear that I have to. A good friend –” He paused, wondering how Hermione was getting on with Ripnok and what the bank needed from her. “A good friend explained to me some of the many advantages. I’d like to claim the rings of both houses today. Eventually, I want to merge the two houses.”

Archin nodded approvingly, and pulled a thin rope hanging from the ceiling on his side of the table. A chime sounded, and a moment later another goblin appeared at the door. “Bring Mister Potter the rings of the Head of Potter and Black from the vaults,” he commanded, and the goblin darted out. Archin turned his attention back to the list of investments.

“While we wait, Mister Potter, allow me to review some of your investment options with you. We will need to sell your shares discreetly if you wish to divest from any industries, to avoid alerting the muggles and upsetting the market.”

It was another twenty minutes before the goblin returned with the Potter and Black rings, during which time Harry had asked Archin to move the Black family investments out of anything to do with the muggle militaries, weapons, or tobacco. Together, they’d picked alternate companies researched by the goblins’ research department. There were several promising technology companies on the list.

When the rings arrived, Harry opened each box and set them down before him. The Potter family ring was brilliant gold, with an ornate “P” stamped into the flat face. Inside of the loop formed by the letter was a tiny hourglass; a raised chain on the top of the hourglass spilled out to wrap around the stem of the letter. It was clearly meant to be a time turner, and Harry wondered at that for a moment before he picked up the ring and took a deep breath. He had read, over and over, the words he was supposed to say to claim his family legacy, and he recited them aloud as Archin watched.

“I, Harry James Potter, claim my place as Head of the Ancient and Noble House of Potter, for I am the only son of Lily Evans Potter and James Charlus Potter, only son of Fleamont and Euphemia Potter.” As golden magic slid over his skin and shimmered in the low light of the conference room, Harry placed the Potter ring on his right ring finger. The ring immediately resized itself to fit his finger perfectly, and he swore he heard chimes ringing in the distance before the glow faded.

He picked up the second ring. It, too, had a band of gold, but there was a white piece of marble set into the band. Onyx crows were inlaid into the white stone, as was a platinum, armour-clad hand raising a sword. “I, Harry James Potter, claim my place as Head of the Ancient and Noble House of Black, for I am the godson of Sirius Orion Black and his designated heir,” he recited. The magic slid over his skin again, and while it felt as cold as a winter night, rather than the comforting warmth of the Potter magic, when he slid the ring onto his middle finger the band resized itself and a bell tolled in his mind.

“Very good, my Lord,” Archin applauded. “There is paperwork to be filed with your Ministry of Magic, which Gringotts would be happy to complete for you. That should avoid certain…unpleasantness that you may face. However, you will need to attend Wizengamot sessions or name a proxy for your votes when they return to session next week.”

Harry frowned; Hermione had mentioned that claiming Head of House status would afford him a seat on the Wizengamot, but he hadn’t thought about what that would mean in practice while he was still enrolled in Hogwarts. “Just Harry, please. And – exactly what kind of privileges does a proxy have?” he asked.

Archin raised his eyebrows. “A proxy is able to vote on your behalf, my Lord. If you choose to work through a proxy, you must choose someone you trust implicitly – for they may use your vote without consulting you on every single issue.”

Harry sat back in his chair with a frown and wondered, briefly, if Arthur Weasley had a seat on the Wizengamot, and if he could speak with him about the matter.

“Shall we see if Miss Granger and Miss McGonagall have concluded their business with Ripnok?” Archin prompted after a few minutes.

Nodding his agreement, Harry stood and allowed the short goblin to lead him from the room.


	17. The Baroness

As the door to the conference room closed behind them, Ripnok gestured for the two witches to follow him. They didn’t have far to go; it was just a short walk from the conference room to a long hallway filled with oak doors with glass panels.

When they reached the door labelled “Ripnok: Trusts and Estates”, the goblin opened the door and ushered Hermione and Professor McGonagall into his office. “Please, have a seat and make yourselves comfortable,” he offered before stepping behind the oak desk that dominated the office and sitting down.

Hermione sat in a chair on the opposite side of the desk from Ripnok, and waited until McGonagall had settled herself in the chair’s twin. “Thank you for meeting with me on short notice, sir,” she began hesitantly, “But…I am not sure what Miss Dagworth-Granger’s death has to do with me.”

Ripnok picked up a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and carefully unfolded the arms with sharp-nailed fingers, placing them on his nose and wrapping the temples behind his prodigious ears. He then opened a large folder on his desk and paged through several sheets of parchment. “Baroness Vida Dagworth-Granger passed away a few days ago, Miss Granger. As is not entirely uncommon for wizards and witches, she died without children. And despite her account manager’s urgings, she did not leave a will at the time of her death.” He adjusted the spectacles on his nose and continued, “Therefore, Gringotts conducted a search to locate Miss Dagworth-Granger’s nearest relative. Per the Ministry of Magic’s laws, in order to inherit, one must be a witch or wizard. Our research department found you, Miss Granger.”

Hermione’s skin grew cold for a moment; her hands felt suddenly clammy. “But!” she exclaimed, and stopped. “But I’m a… _muggleborn,_ ” she whispered. Distantly, she felt McGonagall’s hand rest on her forearm.

“Not exactly, Miss Granger,” Ripnok corrected. “You are Vida Dagworth-Granger’s great niece, according to the Ministry’s records.” He pushed a piece of parchment across the desk to Hermione; it was a family tree, with two children descended from Hector Dagworth-Granger. Hermione’s grandfather, Oliver, was listed as _Oliver Granger, squib_. Hermione thought, a touch hysterically, that she would have to tell Professor Slughorn that she was related to Dagworth-Granger after all.

McGonagall, meanwhile, gasped and leaned forward to pull the parchment closer. “ _Isla Urquart_? But she was supposed to have died fifty years ago!” Hermione focused on the parchment once again. _Isla Urquart, squib_ was listed as having married Oliver Granger in 1944. A line connected them to _Daniel Granger, squib, raised as Muggle,_ and a further line connected Daniel and his wife, Emma, to Hermione – listed as _Hermione Jean Granger, witch_. 

“You are, Miss Granger, the daughter of squibs – as is often the case with so-called muggleborn, despite the fact that so-called pureblood families prefer to ignore that fact. Given your talents, I suspect that your mother may also have a wizard in her family tree,” Ripnok continued after a glance at McGonagall’s interruption. “But that, of course, is beyond the scope of Gringotts’ research. As the great-niece of Lady Dagworth-Granger, her estate falls to you.”

He turned to another sheet of parchment. “According to our records, Lady Dagworth-Granger had Vault number 632 here at Gringotts, which currently contains six hundred and seventy-nine thousand galleons, twelve sickles, and three knuts. There are also a number of books and family keepsakes. She also possessed Dagworth Manor, in Gloucestershire. The manor is worth approximately one hundred and seventy-two thousand galleons, according to our appraiser. We have not appraised the contents of the home, but can do so for a modest fee.”

Hermione leaned back in her chair as a wave of dizziness hit her. She had a great-aunt. Her father was a squib. Her _grandparents_ were squibs. Her mother _might_ have wizarding ancestry. And her great-aunt, whom she had never met, had inadvertently left her a fortune. Her parents were well-off, thanks to their thriving dental practice, but this inheritance had the potential to change all of their lives. “Are…are you sure?” she croaked. Realizing that she might have insulted the goblin and his research staff, she straightened up. “That is, my family believes they are muggles. My grandparents have never done anything to make me think otherwise. This is…this is a shock.”

Ripnok gave Hermione what she supposed passed for a sympathetic look, from a goblin. “Yes, Miss Granger, our researchers are quite certain. We will verify this with a test, of course, before the property and the vault are turned over to you.” At Hermione’s strangled assent, his lips pursed. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable, Miss Granger? I’ll have tea brought in and we can conduct the test in a few minutes.” He stood from his desk and left the office through a side door; Hermione heard him muttering in raspy tones to another goblin.

“Miss Granger, will you be alright?” Professor McGonagall suddenly asked beside her. Hermione startled from her thoughts and took a deep breath.

“It really _is_ a shock,” she confessed. “My parents are _muggles_. And so are Grandma Isla and Grandpa Oliver – I thought. My grandmother was a _nurse_ , professor! She and Grandpa Oliver told me that they met during the war, when he was a soldier.”

Professor McGonagall pursed her lips. “It was not…uncommon for squibs born to pureblood parents to be killed in those days, Miss Granger. Even some of the less hard-line families often obliviated squibs of all knowledge of the magical world and rehomed them in the muggle world.”

“ _Pureblood_?” The idea that she was related not only to the Dagworth-Grangers but to _two_ pureblooded families sent Hermione’s mind reeling.

“Why, yes. Sir Hector Dagworth-Granger was a pureblood, and so was the Urquart family. So much of the wizarding world was – and still is – so unsympathetic,” McGonagall explained. “It was even worse before Grindelwald was defeated. It is possible that your grandparents were obliviated and then sent into London. It’s even possible that the Urquarts and the Dagworth-Grangers sent them together and arranged for them to meet, I suppose.”

Hermione looked at the family tree – _her_ family tree – again and noticed another name for the first time. “Professor…you were married to Elphinstone Urquart? My – my great-uncle?” The notation under the name indicated that Elphinstone was deceased, causing Hermione to frown.

McGonagall stiffened in her chair. “That was many years ago, Miss Granger. But yes,” she admitted, “Elphinstone was my husband.”

Hermione was saved from having to come up with a reply to that by the arrival of a young goblin carrying a large tray with a tea set and a platter of biscuits. He set the tray on the desk and left the office in silence. Ripnok returned a moment later, followed by yet another goblin.

“I’ll pour,” Hermione offered, and picked up the ornate silver tea pot. Soon, the calming odours of citrus and bergamot filled the office as she poured a cup for each of the office’s four occupants.

When the tea was served, and the two goblins and two witches were nibbling on biscuits, Ripnok spoke again. “I’d like to introduce you to Belrig, one of our accounts advisors, Miss Granger. Once we have verified that all is in order, Belrig will show you to Vault 632.”

Hermione offered a tentative, close-lipped smile to the second goblin. Like Ripnok, he wore a black wool suit, but a pocket watch hung at his waist and his nose was not nearly so crooked as some of the other goblins she’d seen. “I’m pleased to meet you, Belrig,” she said politely.

“Likewise, Miss Granger. I look forward to working with you. In particular, we should discuss your options for investment of the funds in Vault 632. While the late Lady Dagworth-Granger was invested very conservatively, given your youth, there are a number of ways we can ensure that your future is quite comfortable,” Belrig advised. He finished off the last of his tea and set the cup down on the desk. “Now then, Miss Granger, if you’re ready – I’d like to perform the verification test.”

Hermione set her own tea cup down with a touch of trepidation. She glanced at McGonagall before asking, “What does the test entail?”

Belrig conjured a small, silver knife and a ruby-encrusted hilt. “We will take a very small sample of your blood, Miss Granger – it requires no more than a prick of your finger – and place it on this parchment. The spell we use will confirm that you are, indeed, Hermione Jean Granger, and that you are Vida Dagworth-Granger’s great-niece,” he explained.

Hermione nodded hesitantly and held out her hand. She tried not to wince when the blade cut into the thick pad of her thumb. Blood dripped onto the parchment, and she thought, briefly, that it might be nice if this really _was_ all a mistake. If it wasn’t…if it wasn’t, then her family was very different than she thought.

Belrig waved his hand over the parchment as Professor McGonagall drew her wand and performed a quiet _episkey_ on her student’s still-bleeding thumb. Hermione’s blood spread across the parchment in thin, spidery lines – forming a symbol that only the goblins seemed to understand. Both seemed pleased, however, and Ripnok announced, “Indeed, Miss Granger, you are the heir of the Dagworth-Granger estate. I do recommend that you claim your place as Head of House Dagworth-Granger. The house is a noble one, if not ancient. Lady Dagworth-Granger was a Baroness, and the title will fall to you, now. There are certain…privileges that come with being the head of a wizarding house, as you know of course.”

Hermione nodded briefly. “Ye-es, I looked up the Head of House responsibilities when Harry told me about his inheritance. But – aren’t family lines among wizards typically passed to the _men_?”

Ripnok’s eyebrows rose a little at Hermione’s question. “Oftentimes, but not exclusively, Miss Granger. Hector Dagworth-Granger did not want his family’s title to disappear when your grandfather turned out to be a squib. It would have left the late Lady Dagworth-Granger vulnerable. He made an…arrangement to allow the title and Head of House status to pass to the oldest magical heir, regardless of sex. I am told it was quite costly, magically speaking, and is part of the reason he died relatively young.”

The room was silent for a few minutes as Hermione stared into her half-empty porcelain cup. She wondered, silently, what her parents would think. What would her _grandparents_ think if they knew? Had they truly been obliviated? What if they still knew about the wizarding world? She knew that her father had never told them about her magical powers; Professor McGonagall had emphasised that only her parents could know. Finally, she looked up and said, “I understand that there is a process for claiming the Dagworth-Granger title. Is Gringotts able to assist me with that?”

“Indeed, Miss Granger,” Belrig spoke up. “We’ll have an employee retrieve your ring right away; we can also complete the necessary paperwork with your Ministry of Magic. I expect Archin has offered to do the same for your friend.”

Hermione nodded briefly. “I would appreciate that, Belrig. Given the state of the ministry, I expect it would be best to work through you.”

Professor McGonagall must have agreed, as she didn’t protest at the additional time they spent waiting for a goblin to retrieve the Dagworth-Granger ring. She simply poured more tea for herself and leaned back in her chair.

When the ring in question was placed in front of Hermione a few minutes later, she looked it over carefully. It had obviously been magically resized to fit her great-aunt’s hand at some point, for the platinum band was slender. The focal point of the ring was an azure, oval-shaped stone atop which sat a lion rampant. Looking more closely, Hermione could see that one of the lion’s paws was clutching a pomegranate. At Belrig’s urging, she removed the ring from its simple black box. She remembered the words she’d made notes on for Harry, and recited quietly, “I, Hermione Jean Granger, claim my place as Head of the Noble House of Dagworth-Granger, for I am the great-niece and closest living, magical heir of Vida Dagworth-Granger.”

When she placed the ring on her right ring finger, it resized to fit her and a rush of silver magic shimmered on her skin. Both Ripnok and Belrig nodded their approval, but Professor McGonagall straightened in her chair and gasped softly, and Hermione turned to her immediately. “Professor?”

The older witch took a deep breath and her lips twitched. “I’m quite alright, Miss…” She cleared her throat, “Lady Dagworth-Granger. Your magical inheritance is simply more impressive than I expected.”

Hermione wanted to puzzle over that phrase, but Ripnok interrupted: “If you are ready, Lady Dagworth-Granger, Belrig will escort you to the Dagworth-Granger vault and arrange for you to receive your key, a well as the title and deed to Dagworth Manor.”

Belrig once again leapt to his feet. “Of course, of course. If you will follow me, Lady Dagworth-Granger, Miss McGonagall?” he requested.

Hermione and Professor McGonagall rose from their chairs and followed Belrig from Ripnok’s office. He led them even deeper into the bank, where the two witches climbed into a mine cart. Hermione had never been this far into Gringotts: she didn’t have a vault, not even a small student’s vault as some of her classmates had, and her parents simply exchanged Muggle pounds for galleons when they shopped for her school supplies each August.

As Belrig drove and the mine cart swooped and spiralled along the track, past vaults one, 101, 201, and then deeper into the space below the bank, Hermione clung to the bar in front of her. McGonagall was clearly used to a trip like this, but for Hermione it was a lot like riding a roller coaster, which she cared for about as much as she enjoyed flying (which wasn’t very much at all). She’d been taking the stomach soothing potions prescribed by Madam Pomfrey, but she still began to feel ill, her stomach churning ominously. She swallowed heavily and her grip on the metal bar tightened until her knuckles turned white.

Finally, Belrig drew the cart to a stop in front of Vault 632 and the two witches climbed out; Hermione was secretly pleased that she was only a little unsteady on her feet, although her stomach felt more uncertain. The door of the vault stood sealed before them, barely taller than Hermione. In the low light of the torches scattered throughout the caverns, Hermione could barely make out a key hole hidden amongst the ornate iron leaves and vines covering the door. Above the hole, also crafted from the dark metal, hung the image of a lion rampant clutching a pomegranate in one clawed paw. The lion turned its head and roared silently at Hermione as she stared at it.

“Please stand back, Lady Dagworth-Granger,” Belrig requested, and Hermione obediently backed up nearly to the mine cart as Belrig inserted the key into the vault door and turned. The lion roared again before falling still, and the vault door swung open.

Globes of light sprung into being as Hermione stared at the vault, and after a moment she thought that of _course_ she was truly related to the Dagworth-Grangers: the vault was as neatly organized as she could have wanted.

Several enormous, dark metal bins to the left of the vault held the galleons that she’d inherited, each neatly labelled with the number of galleons contained in the bin. Two much smaller bins contained the handful of sickles and knuts Ripnok had included in his description of the vault’s contents.

Along the back wall of the vault were several shelves filled with books, and against the right wall were two shelves filled with small boxes. On a simple pedestal in the middle of the vault was a large, bright blue tome. As Hermione stepped forward, she could see that it was titled, “Dagworth-Granger: Contents”.

“Go ahead, my Lady,” Belrig prompted, and Hermione jumped a little, as though she’d forgotten that Belrig and Professor McGonagall were standing there. “This book is the inventory of the vault.”

Hermione reached out and opened the book to its first page. Black writing bled onto the page: _Welcome, Lady Hermione Dagworth-Granger._ There was a table of contents listed, and she read it silently. The book began with the money contained within the vault, and then moved on to the listing of the books. Last, it covered the many boxes stacked on the right side of the wall. “There’s…family _jewellery_?” she asked. “And a family grimoire?”

Belrig’s ears flapped, just slightly, as he nodded. “Indeed. In the last few years of her life, the late Lady Dagworth-Granger had nearly all of her jewellery and her most prized books moved into the vault by the Dagworth-Granger house elves.”

Hermione’s fingers stilled on the book and she slowly turned her head to look at Belrig. “House elves?” she asked in an even tone.

“Of course, my Lady. She would not have been able to live alone at Dagworth Manor, given her advanced age, without the help of the family elves. The family had two, I believe. You will need to visit the manor as soon as you can and bond with them, or they’ll die,” Belrig stated matter-of-factly.

Hermione closed the book in front of her carefully and turned back toward the door of the vault. Professor McGonagall was waiting, patiently, and she flushed with embarrassment to have kept the older witch standing there. She was also beginning to feel quite tired. She wondered if it was because of the magic she had expended when claiming her ring. “Thank you, Belrig. I will do as you recommend. For now, however, I have taken up quite a lot of your time. I will make an appointment with you – during the winter holidays, perhaps? – and we can discuss the investment options you mentioned.”

Belrig offered another nod, and in his hands appeared a black velvet bag. “I look forward to it, Lady Dagworth-Granger. In this bag are your vault key and the deed to Dagworth Manor. The bag is charmed to open only for you and cannot be stolen.

“The wards would have fallen when Lady Dagworth-Granger died; again, you should visit the manor as soon as you can to set things in order,” Belrig admonished as he guided the two witches back to the mine cart and, with a gesture, re-sealed the vault. “Gringotts would be pleased to assist you in rebuilding the wards, for a fee of course.”

Hermione nodded, murmuring, “Thank you” in response to Belrig’s offer, but she stayed quiet on the trip back up to the surface and when McGonagall asked if she was quite alright, she offered only a distracted assent.

When they arrived at the surface, Hermione saw that Harry, Ripnok, and Archin were all waiting. She perked up a little, smiling to see the gleam of two rings on Harry’s right hand. “Lord Potter-Black, I presume?” she asked.

The words made Harry duck his head and scrub a hand through his hair in transparent embarrassment, but then he smiled at her. “Archin helped me take care of all that, yes. Ripnok tells me that you’re Lady Dagworth-Granger now. I’ll have to call you ‘my Lady’ from now on,” he teased.

“Oh, you know that I’ll _always_ be just Hermione to you,” she said, her cheeks flushing. She knew he was just teasing, but some small part of her liked the way he said _my_ Lady. Hermione tried to dismiss the feeling; after all, they were just friends. She knew Harry preferred girls like Cho Chang and Ginny Weasley.

Harry seemed to have something more pressing in mind, however, as he cleared his throat. “Hermione,” he began, as he took a long, flat box from one pocket of his robes. “I was thinking – things are still dangerous, and after last spring…” He swallowed and held the box out for her to take. “Archin said that wearing this would help protect you. There are charms on it – protections that will help shield you. You know – just, just in case.”

Hermione’s lips parted in surprise and she took the box automatically as Harry finished his explanation. When she opened the box, however, she let out a gasp that was almost a shriek. “Oh, _Harry_ , I can’t – I can’t accept this! It’s too much,” she exclaimed. Nestled in the box, held in place by ivory fabric ties, was an exquisite necklace. The chain gleamed in the low light of the entrance to the vaults, and led to a fragile-looking circle filled with tiny stars made from canary-yellow diamonds. A sliver of the circle was covered in brilliant white diamonds, giving the impression of a crescent moon. As Hermione watched, the stars slowly spun and sparkled just a little more brightly in the light.

Harry shook his head. “It isn’t too much, Hermione. It’s to _protect_ you. There’s one for Ron, too – it’s different, he wouldn’t wear a girly necklace like that,” he joked, “but Archin helped me find something. He said he’d help me find something similar for Luna, and Neville, too.” He didn’t mention that the necklace in Hermione’s hands had belonged to his grandmother, and that the thing he’d found for Ron was just a leather thong with a silver pectoral, instead of the platinum and diamonds that made up the necklace he was offering to Hermione. “It’s to keep you safe, Hermione. Please?”

Hermione looked at him hesitantly, but finally she nodded and offered the box. “Will you help me put it on?” she asked.

With a little grin that made Hermione’s heart flip over, Harry removed the necklace from its box and undid the clasp. Moving up behind his friend, Harry deftly slid it around her neck and clasped the chain shut. As he did, Hermione let out an agonized shriek and collapsed back against Harry in a dead faint.


	18. Hermione's Curse

As Hermione slumped against Harry, fully unconscious, Professor McGonagall lurched forward and so did the goblins as Harry’s knees buckled before he regained his balance and slid an arm under Hermione’s bent knees. “ _Help!”_ he demanded, eyes wide and sparking green behind his glasses. His voice was hoarse as he looked down at Hermione, whose skin was ashen.

He lowered her to the ground carefully and checked for her pulse by pressing his fingers lightly against the pulse point on her neck, then looked up at Ripnok. “We – we have to get help!” Her pulse was weak beneath his fingers and he demanded, “Now!” His eyes were wild as he leaned down to listen for any sign that Hermione was still breathing.

Ripnok gave Belrig a shove. “Belrig, _go_.” He rattled off a series of words in Gobbledegook and Belrig vanished into thin air as McGonagall knelt beside Harry and cast a diagnostic charm. At the readout coming from her wand, the transfiguration professor shook her head.

“All the charm says is that she’s unconscious and struggling to breathe,” McGonagall reported as Harry tore his school robe off and bundled it under Hermione’s head to try and make her more comfortable. “I only know first aid charms. There isn’t – this is beyond me,” she whispered as Harry ran a frustrated hand through his hair and grabbed Hermione’s hand.

“I just wanted to _protect_ her,” he muttered. “Maybe – maybe if I take off the necklace? Maybe she’s allergic to the metal?” he asked hopefully. He’d never heard of an allergy to metal that could cause someone to collapse, but five years among wizards had taught him that very little was impossible.

“Don’t touch that necklace!” a high, nasal voice demanded. Harry and McGonagall both looked up: a short goblin in a green gown had arrived, seemingly from nowhere, and Belrig had reappeared. The goblin’s features were decidedly feminine, and substantially more delicate than any of the goblins Harry had ever seen before. “I am Deraga. I will help Lady Dagworth-Granger,” the goblin explained.

McGonagall stood from her position at Hermione’s side to make room, as the goblin – the _female goblin_ – stepped closer and waved a delicate hand over Hermione’s body. The young witch began to glow, and the goblin muttered under her breath. Harry held tightly onto Hermione’s hand and watched, silently willing his friend to breathe more deeply, to open her eyes.

Suddenly, the goblin healer hissed, and the glow vanished. “This is _very_ bad,” she announced. “This witch has been _cursed_.”

Harry dropped Hermione’s hand as if it had burned him. “Was it the necklace? Did I hurt her?” he demanded, his eyes focused on the healer. He couldn’t bear the thought that he might once more be the cause of Hermione’s pain. So many people had already gotten hurt because of him. His parents had died for him. Sirius had died because of him. Neville, Ron, and Ginny had all gotten hurt…

The goblin was still looking over Hermione, and she waved her hand at the necklace, which glowed pure white and floated above Hermione’s chest briefly. “No, my Lord Potter-Black. This necklace is what caused her to collapse, yes – because it tried to interfere with the curses placed on your witch. We must get her to a ritual space, and quickly.” She snapped her fingers, and Hermione floated toward the mine cart. McGonagall and Harry followed, as did Ripnok, Archin, and Belrig.

The cart sped back down into the caverns below Gringotts, moving deeper and deeper until they arrived at a glowing space within the bedrock below London. Harry knew they weren’t in the vaults anymore; they must have been in the caverns where the goblins actually lived. He might have appreciated the opportunity to see what other wizards never could, if it wasn’t for Hermione.

The healer floated Hermione’s body from the cart and into the glowing room, and then snapped her fingers at Harry. “You,” she said. “You will join me. The rest must wait outside.”

As Harry obediently climbed from the cart and followed Deraga into the light-filled space, McGonagall turned to look at Ripnok. “You sent for one of your healers,” she said quietly. “No one has seen a healer from your nation in – hundreds of years.”

Ripnok merely inclined his head. “She is…special to the goblin nation, Miss McGonagall. Like your nation, we believe that she – and Lord Potter-Black – will do great things. I know you sense the same thing, as a member of her family.”

It was rare indeed to render Minerva McGonagall speechless, but to hear a member of the Goblin Horde call a witch “special” to their nation quite did the trick. As her head warred between outrage that her favourite student had been cursed and worry that Hermione wouldn’t live through the day, in the back of her mind she wondered just what Ripnok and the other goblins had seen in Hermione Dagworth-Granger.

Harry looked around at the gleaming ritual space with abject curiosity despite Hermione’s dire state. Carved directly into the earth, the chamber was spacious and the walls were as smooth as crystal. In fact, as he looked around, he thought they might actually _be_ crystal. The floor was carved with a circle of runes that Harry had never seen before, and for the first time he wished he had decided to take Ancient Runes instead of joining Ron in Divination. He watched silently as Deraga laid Hermione in the middle of the room and efficiently vanished her clothes without a word. Harry blushed violently and lowered his eyes to avoid looking at his friend’s nakedness, but Deraga pointed at him imperiously.

“Remove your clothes and stand across the circle from me,” she demanded. “The curse affects you, as well, and there are things in your blood and body that do not belong there.” 

Harry startled at _that_ piece of news but obediently scrambled to strip off his shoes, robes, trousers, boxers, and shirt. Cheeks flaming but Hermione’s safety at the forefront of his mind, Harry quickly moved across the room to stand directly across from Deraga, within the circle of runes. Two other goblins, both also female, had entered the ritual space, and Harry watched as they each took a space within the circle equidistant between Deraga and himself.

A bright silver staff, topped with a quartz crystal, appeared in Deraga’s hands and she tapped it on the floor, causing the runes to light up and turn a brilliant emerald hue in the otherwise golden glow of the ritual room. Harry resisted the urge to cover himself as the goblin began to chant.

Purple, red, and grey flares of light shot from Hermione’s body as the goblin chanted in her language and the room glowed even more brightly. The two goblins to either side of Harry – both female – seemed prepared for this, as each caught one of the flares in their hands. Compressed into small balls of purple, red, and grey, each floated within the circle as Deraga continued to chant. Harry watched in horror as inky black streamed from Hermione’s chest and sickly green slithered from her abdomen.

As he watched, Harry became conscious of a growing ache in his own chest, as well as a searing pain in his scar. He struggled to stay upright as his chest burned and something twisted within him; with a yell, he nearly pitched forward but regained his footing. Sickly red light slithered out of his chest and he watched in horror as it tried to slink toward Hermione before one of the goblins caught it effortlessly. He could feel something within his scar pulsing, tearing at his skin, and Harry yelled again as his scar started to bleed. Deraga’s eyes widened in horror, and she gestured at him with her staff. The pain grew stronger, but suddenly the runes went dark. Harry collapsed to the ground, screaming, as though his strings had been cut. Blood streamed from the scar on his forehead and down either side of his nose.

Harry stared at Deraga from his place on the floor. The goblin looked as though she, too, might collapse. His gaze turned to Hermione, who was breathing more easily. “What…what the bloody hell was all of that?” he asked, panting. He felt as though he had run a marathon or swum to the bottom of the Black Lake with no gillyweed. With a shaking hand he rubbed some of the blood away from his nose and mouth, but it stained his lips and he tasted copper. He suddenly had the powerful urge to vomit, and swallowed several times to suppress the feeling.

Deraga gestured with her staff again, and a white robe covered Hermione’s nakedness. “It is as I thought and _much_ worse than I thought, my Lord.” She pursed her lips at Harry’s mumbled request to just call him Harry. “Dress yourself, and we will move the Lady to a more comfortable place. Then we can discuss what happened to her – and to you.” With a wave of the staff she conjured a white cloth, and Harry wiped his face with it before pressing it against his still-bleeding scar.

He flushed crimson when he remembered that he was still naked, and struggled to stand up. His clothes were back at the edge of the circle, and he dressed himself with arms that shook almost too badly to button his trousers. When his shirt and trousers were back in place and his trainers tied, he turned to find Deraga once again floating Hermione with wandless magic.

Professor McGonagall and the three male goblins were waiting outside of the cavern when they emerged. Professor McGonagall’s lips were tightly compressed to the point that they were nearly colourless, while the three goblins merely stared at Deraga for a moment before they fell in line behind her. Harry followed slowly as the healer led them all to a smaller cavern with two beds. He could feel blood dripping from his scar again, and he pressed the now-stained cloth to the wound more firmly. He could hear his teacher’s boots clicking on the stone ground as she followed behind him.

The walls of the second cavern were smoothed over and painted a soothing pale green, while the beds were close together and covered in identical ivory comforters. At a gesture from Deraga, Belrig hurried forward and pulled the covers back so that Deraga could float Hermione onto the bed. With another gesture, the covers slid up over her, tucking her in. As Harry watched, Hermione’s breaths came in and out softly and evenly; she still looked white as a sheet, but at least she seemed to be sleeping, rather than unconscious.

“The other bed is for you.” The goblin’s tone brooked no argument, and Harry felt too enervated to protest. He’d barely made it from the ritual cavern to this one. He toed his trainers back off and climbed into the bed, allowing Deraga to fluff a set of pillows behind his back and head so that he was propped up.

Deraga waved a hand, and a series of translucent charts appeared above Hermione’s head. She turned her attention to McGonagall and Harry. “This witch has been gravely ill for many months. She was hit with one of the darker curses you wizards have created, and then with several other hexes and charms that impeded her recovery. She has been labouring under the burden of these charms and hexes for several months now.”

McGonagall drew herself up, her face pale in the warm light of the cavern. “She saw the Hogwarts mediwitch quite _frequently_ , Healer. How could she have missed not one but _multiple_ charms?” she demanded. “Madam Pomfrey is an excellent mediwitch!”

Deraga inclined her head briefly. “Your Madam Pomfrey is indeed skilled, Miss McGonagall. In fact I am certain that she _did_ know of the first curse. Lady Dagworth-Granger has trace amounts of several medicinal potions in her blood that would be used to treat this curse, as well as more recent evidence of potions to treat her continued symptoms. These other charms, however, are partially cloaked by very powerful magic. They impeded her healing significantly. The diagnostic charms and other methods available to most mediwitches would not have found these. Even you were unable to sense them, and you are more powerful than Madam Pomfrey, in your own way.”

McGonagall seemed nonplussed by Deraga’s compliment, and opened her mouth to speak once more, but Harry beat her to it.

“But what made her collapse _now_?” he asked. “She hasn’t been well, she’s been tired and pale for _months_ now, but she’s never _collapsed_.”

“The necklace you gave her tried to break the charms because they were a threat; the resulting stress to her magical core caused her to collapse,” Deraga explained. “If your Lady was not as powerful a witch as she is, the burden on her magic would have killed her by now.”

At that moment, Hermione began to stir. Her breathing quickened, and she shifted under the blankets, as if she was struggling to push them away, before her eyes opened. Harry sat up straighter in his bed and reached out to grasp one of her hands in his as Deraga looked up at the colourful charts hovering above Hermione. “How are you feeling, my Lady?” the healer asked solicitously.

Hermione looked around the room carefully. The three male goblins who had accompanied them down to the vaults were standing a respectful distance away; Professor McGonagall was closer, hovering near the goblin by her bedside. She turned her head slightly, and saw that the person holding onto her hand was Harry – _her Harry_ , she thought, and wondered where the thought had come from. She wondered, too, why he was also in a bed. She took a deep breath and realized that she could, for the first time in months. Her stomach had ceased its endless churning, and while she felt tired, it no longer felt like an oppressive weight had wrapped itself around her chest. “I feel…tired,” she murmured. “But…but better than I have in a long time.”

Deraga nodded in satisfaction. “I expect that is so, my Lady,” she said, and Hermione turned her attention to the goblin again.

“Just Hermione, please,” she requested. “Are – did you help me? I remember Harry giving me a necklace, and then – then nothing.” She reached up with her free hand and tentatively touched the delicate pendant still hanging from a chain around her neck.

“You were sick long before Harry gave you that necklace, Hermione,” Deraga explained. “You were hit by an Organ-Crushing Curse many months ago, were you not?” At Hermione’s hesitant nod, she continued, “Someone placed other spells on you while you were still recovering. Because you were already sick, the curses have been feeding on your magical core. You are lucky that you are such a strong witch, or you would have died long before now, with no one to know what killed you.”

Hermione tried to sit up and failed before the goblin healer snapped a finger and the bed slowly adjusted itself to help the young witch. She nodded her thanks and asked, “What spells were cast on me, Healer? Are you able to tell who cast them?”

“I must have more time to analyse the remains of the spells,” Deraga replied. “I do know that one spell was an aversion charm, and it was the twin to one cast on Harry. Someone wanted, rather desperately, to keep the two of you apart. I cannot yet tell who cast them, but I will analyse them for you.”

Harry and Hermione exchanged a look, and Hermione found herself gripping her friend’s hand more tightly. “We – I’m so sorry, Harry; I couldn’t even understand myself why I was so angry about that stupid book, and how I’ve acted all summer…” Hermione sniffled, quietly, and her cinnamon-hued eyes welled up with tears that began to spill from the corner of each eye. Harry just squeezed her hand in return and shook his head.

“It’s my fault, Hermione. I convinced you to come to the ministry with me. I’m the reason you were hurt – the reason why whoever did this was able to curse you and hurt you this way.” He hung his head, and only the tug on his hand made him raise it again.

“It’s not your fault,” Hermione objected. “You thought Sirius was in danger, and I volunteered to go with you. We _all_ did, Harry.” Harry clung to her hand more tightly, but before he could say more, the healer cleared her throat.

“There is more, I’m sorry to say. You felt terrible pain when we were in the circle together, did you not, Harry?” Deraga asked.

Harry nodded hesitantly. “I thought my head would split open,” he admitted. “I’ve felt that way before, when Voldemort is doing something awful.”

Deraga grunted. “The purification circle was not enough to draw this impurity from your body. I will study what this could be _. It does not belong_."

“You must rest, Hermione,” she continued. “With Miss McGonagall’s permission, we will keep watch over you both until morning. Travel back to Hogwarts will be easier for you after you have slept,” Deraga suggested, and glanced at Minerva. The older witch gave a short nod, and turned to Ripnok.

“With your permission, Healer, Ripnok,” she began, but the goblin interrupted with a wave of his hand.

“We would be happy to provide a space for you to rest, Miss McGonagall,” he offered. “Be assured that Deraga and her team will keep Lady Dagworth-Granger and Lord Potter-Black safe – and Belrig will set a guard for her as well.”

Belrig bowed low in acknowledgement. “Indeed, it would be my pleasure to ensure that they are watched over while they are guests of Gringotts.” He glanced at Deraga. “My wife and I are honoured to be entrusted with her care,” he said.

Hermione and Harry exchanged a mystified look. Hermione, always the best at staying awake in even Professor Binns’ classes, had no idea before today that goblins had healers, or families for that matter. Even as her eyelids drooped with exhaustion, she wondered what else she didn’t know.

With one last look, Minerva followed Ripnok and Archin from the warm cave. Hermione leaned back against her pillow and allowed Deraga to tuck the blankets back around her. Harry reluctantly let go of her hand and allowed the healer to do the same for him. She applied a bandage to his head, covering the scar, and with a gesture darkened the lights in the small room.

When the healer was gone and the only noise was the occasional creak of armour from the guards stationed outside of the cavern, Hermione turned her head slightly to look at Harry.

“Harry,” she whispered. “We need to find out who did this. Even if the healer can’t.”

The boy in the other bed was silent long enough that Hermione thought he’d fallen asleep, and so she startled when he replied, “We will, Hermione. Whether it was something the Death Eaters did, or Malfoy, or…or even if it was someone closer.”

“Closer? You don’t think it could have been a _friend,_ do you?” Hermione asked. She sounded drowsy in the darkness, and Harry could tell she was trying to stay awake.

“We’ll find out,” Harry repeated. “No matter who it is.”

Hermione seemed to accept that, because he heard her breathing even out. When Harry was certain she was asleep, he whispered, “I won’t let _anyone_ get away with hurting you.”


	19. Interlude: Molly's Discovery

Molly Weasley had always been rather proud of the fact that she kept a clean house. Despite raising six boys, two of whom were always inventing the messiest of pranks, the Burrow was as clean as magic could make it. Now, with only two of her children home, and only during the summer at that, Molly found it easier than ever to keep the Burrow free of dirt and grime. _Of course_ , she amended, _Harry and Hermione stay here over the summer as well_. But Harry and Hermione kept their own belongings neat as a pin and out of the way.

 _Ginny, on the other hand…_ To occupy her time in a house empty of everyone but her, Molly was cleaning her youngest’s bedroom. _She’s always been something of a packrat,_ Molly reflected as she used her wand to empty each of the four drawers from the chest that had been pushed against one wall. Despite how stretched-thin the Weasleys’ budget was by having so many children, as Ginny was the only girl she’d amassed a store’s worth of clothing over the years. Busy as she was raising so many children, Molly had never paid much attention to the fact that her daughter rarely threw anything away.

Envisioning Ginny’s happy face when she arrived home at Christmas to see her room sparkling clean and free of the clutter from her girlhood, over the course of the morning Molly sorted out the clothes that no longer fit her daughter and piled them into an extendable bag. Once she finished with the chest of drawers, she started on the girl’s closet and like the first pile of clothes, more than half went into the charmed bag. She could sell much of it at Secondhand Robes, and the rest could be sent to St Mungo’s for their Charity Closet. She’d already decided to buy new robes for Ginny with the proceeds, if she could: Merlin knew, the girl was still growing.

With the clothes that had been hanging up taken care of, Molly turned to the floor of the small closet, which predictably was piled with old toys, worn out quidditch gear, and clothing that had obviously fallen from the closet rod. As Molly knelt and lifted a pile of old Hogwarts robes from the left corner of the closet, she stumbled backwards in shock from the rancid odour that suddenly assaulted her nose.

Setting aside the robes, Molly wrinkled her nose and cast an air-freshening charm, then cast it again when the smell diminished only slightly. When she felt she could breathe properly again, she leaned forward into the closet, wand tip lit with a non-verbal _lumos_ , to find the source of the stink.

Hidden behind the rubble of Ginny’s childhood were a cauldron and a selection of poorly-dried, moulding herbs. Molly made a face at the mess her youngest child had left behind, and then summoned a bin from the kitchen. As she quickly began to direct the herbs into the bin with her wand, her heart started to pound. She recognized the herbs Ginny had; some were rare, some were expensive, and a few were borderline-illegal.

When the herbs were disposed of, Molly reached further into the closet for the cauldron. A rancid, partially-evaporated brew sloshed in the bottom of the pewter vessel, and after an experimental sniff Molly banished the liquid. She set the cauldron aside with shaking hands and looked further into the closet. On the floor, their presence masked by the cauldron, were three sheets of parchment. Molly pulled them out of the closet and read them quickly, her face turning white as a sheet.

“Oh _Ginny_ ,” she whispered. “What have you _done_?”

Convinced she must have read them incorrectly, Molly sat down right on the floor of her daughter’s room and read each page again. The first two were labelled clearly: _Magnetising Potion for the Disagreeable Gentleman_ and _Love Potion for Lovelorn Ladies_. The third was a spell, and Molly couldn’t make out what her daughter had planned to cast, or had perhaps already cast. It wasn’t a simple phrase, but a series of Latin words paired with extremely detailed instructions on wand movements. None of it made any sense, but a tingle ran up Molly’s spine and the hair at the back of her neck stood on end.

When she finished, the matronly witch threw all three sheets in the bin and hurried to her feet. She lifted her wand, and this time instead of gently sorting through Ginny’s belongings, Molly ransacked the bedroom: the two beds levitated off of the floor and the mattresses lifted from the bed frames as she sought out other hiding places. Books flew from the bookcase and drawers pulled themselves out of the desk in the corner. Small vials spilled out of a hollowed-out book, and Molly sent them floating into the bin along with several other bundles of herbs.

The whole process took only half an hour, but by the time she was finished, the bin was full, and Molly was sweating due to the magical exertion. She looked around at the disarray she’d caused and swore under her breath before waving her wand again to lower the beds to the floor and send each book back to its proper place.

With another swear, she grabbed the bin in one hand and bustled out of the bedroom, into the kitchen, and out the back door of the house into the yard. When she judged herself to be far enough from the house, Molly dropped the bin on the ground and stepped back. With an efficient swish of her wand, she whispered, _“Incendio,”_ and the contents of the metal bin burst into flame.

As the herbs and parchments quickly burned, Molly cast a bubble-head charm to guard against the noxious black smoke the billowed out of the flames. Loud pops emitted from the bin as the liquid within the glass vials boiled and the glass eventually shattered due to the combined pressure and heat. When every item she’d found was no more than ash, Molly extinguished the last of the flames with an _aguamenti_ spell and poured the resulting ash sludge onto a bare patch of ground in the back corner of the yard.

The evidence destroyed, Molly hurried back inside. She had letters to write to write. But first, she needed to tell Arthur. She suspected that she who the second potion was for, assuming Ginny had been able to brew it successfully; but she hadn’t the foggiest idea why her daughter would have brewed the other.

An hour later, two owls left the Ottery St Catchpole Owl Post. One held a letter addressed to Ginevra Molly Weasley, while the other followed with a letter addressed to Madam Pomfrey.


	20. Hermione's Cure

Minerva McGonagall calmly turned to the next page of the Daily Prophet with one hand while she sipped from a cerulean-hued teacup held in the other. Ripnok and his associates had graciously offered their hospitality while Harry and Hermione recovered from their ordeal, and so after a fitful night’s sleep in a very comfortable bed – after all two of _her_ lions had been in danger and she hadn’t even known it until it was nearly too late for one – she had been shown to a rather charming dining hall and offered her choice of breakfast by one of the human employees of the bank. She watched as, periodically, other employees, both goblin and human, broke their fast in the hall. Several glanced her way and Minerva recognized more than a few of her former students; she wondered if they were curious as to why Hogwarts’ Deputy Headmistress was sitting at a table for two and reading the paper.

Ordinarily, by this time of the morning she would be teaching a class of second year Hufflepuffs; after all, it was a Thursday. Instead, however, she had sent a firm message to Professors Flitwick and Sprout via Patronus instructing each of them that an emergency had taken her away from the castle. She had yet to receive a reply from either professor but wondered what Albus would make of his deputy’s absence.

After yesterday, in fact, Minerva had quite a few questions for Albus Dumbledore. Why had he tried to stop Harry and Hermione from leaving the castle? Oh, yes, the world was a more dangerous place with He Who Must Not Be Named back – but denying Harry a part of his heritage was entirely unlike her long-time friend! Why, just last winter the man had been thrilled for a first year, supposedly muggleborn student who discovered that she had an entire family of cousins from the Harfang and Krum families, and had granted her special dispensation to travel to Bulgaria and meet her new family members in the middle of term.

Something, she decided, was very amiss indeed. She wondered if the man knew something she didn’t; he liked his secrets, after all. However, Minerva was unable to consider the matter further as her ruminations were interrupted by a young-looking goblin hurrying towards her. She folded her copy of the _Prophet_ neatly and took a final sip of her tea.

“Miss McGonagall,” the goblin began when he reached her, “Your students are awake. I am to take you to them immediately.”

Minerva placed her cup back in its saucer before she stood and gestured gracefully with one hand. “Lead on, then.” When the goblin hurried back the way he’d come, she followed with a ground-eating stride that sent her robes swirling around her ankles. They were the same set she’d worn yesterday; when she agreed to accompany Harry and Hermione to Gringotts, she hadn’t anticipated that an hour-long trip would turn into an overnight stay. At least her magic had allowed her to freshen them, and the goblins’ hospitality had extended to providing her with a surprisingly comfortable nightgown. She could claim truthfully that she wasn’t wearing robes that she’d _actually_ slept in.

The goblin led her past the guest area she’d spent the night in, and down several hallways that she expected few wizards had ever seen. Finally, however, they arrived at the green-hued room where Harry and Hermione had spent the night, and Minerva thanked the goblin for his escort before she hurried inside.

The sight that greeted her was a welcome one indeed: Harry was sitting up in bed, chatting easily with the healer, Deraga. The female goblin was studying a series of incomprehensible charts to the left of Hermione’s bed. She’d changed into another robe, this time one in pale seafoam green, but Minerva couldn’t help but notice the sheathed sword at one hip. 

“Ah, Miss McGonagall,” Deraga greeted. She stepped away from Hermione, and Minerva could see that the younger witch was also awake and sitting up, although she still looked too pale against the ivory sheets. “I am performing some additional tests on your students before I clear them to return to Hogwarts,” she explained as the witch drew closer.

“Have you discovered just what curses were used on Hermione?” Minerva asked. She glanced at Harry and her brogue deepened with her next words. “And what other… _thing_ is lingering in Harry?”

At that question, the healer scowled, which caused Harry to draw back in alarm before the goblin’s expression softened. She patted his hand before returning her attention to Minerva.

“There were _several_ curses, Miss McGonagall,” Deraga explained, as Hermione sat up straighter. “Beyond the Organ-Expelling curse from this past spring, which certainly did quite a lot of damage on its own, a more recent aversion charm was cast on both Harry and Hermione to drive a wedge between them.” Her expression darkened. “There were also loyalty charms, which seem to have been renewed with some frequency, and a _very_ old magical block.”

At Minerva’s gasp of outrage, Hermione’s gaze sharpened. “A _magical block_?” she repeated. “Does that mean what it sounds like?”

Minerva nodded, her lips pursed in a grim expression. “Someone was trying to dampen your magic.” She eyed Deraga. “Have these spells damaged Hermione’s core?” she demanded. “Are you able to find a magical signature?”

The goblin seemed unaffected by the Deputy Headmistress’ stern tone. “There is some temporary damage,” she allowed. “Fortunately, Hermione is a very _strong_ witch despite the block, and with time she will make a full recovery.” Deraga frowned. “The block was so old that I could not tell who cast it. It must have been from the wand of a very strong wizard, however; it was likely cast when she was a small child, perhaps as young as six or seven.”

She turned back to Hermione. “With time, you will make a full recovery and be an even _stronger_ witch than you already were. For now, however, you will be on a new potions regimen for the next several weeks to support your healing core, and you should not use any magic for the next few days.”

Hermione took a deep breath, one that seemed to fill her lungs utterly, and expelled it before answering. “I will need to tell our professors…” She looked up at Minerva, who waved a hand dismissively.

“I will handle it; the professors for each of your classes will be alerted by this evening.”

Deraga turned her attention to Harry, whose scar was still covered by a large bandage. “Now, Harry’s condition is another matter. I easily extracted the aversion charm that mirrored the one cast on Hermione, but some _thing_ in his scar still lingered and my strength failed before it could be defeated.” The goblin paused, frowning, and pulled the bandage from Harry’s head.

Beneath the gauze, the lightning bolt scar was still slowly oozing blood, and Harry grimaced. “What is it?” he asked, his voice straining.

Deraga quickly replaced the bandage, which made the wizard relax back against his pillows once more. “I do not know. The curse breakers will be here soon. Until then, the spells on this bandage will keep your pain at bay,” she explained.

No sooner had she finished the sentence than Bill Weasley strode into the room, his lanky form covered by a long, battered brown leather duster. He still had the fang earring, Minerva noticed, and his hair had grown even longer than the last time she’d seen him. He was followed by two goblins, one of whom had a patch over his left eye.

“Curse breaker Weasley,” Deraga greeted briskly. “Nurguff, Agkras. I trust that Archin has impressed upon you the importance of our patient?”

While the two goblins simply grunted their agreement, Bill shot a quick grin at Harry before offering Deraga a significantly more solemn assent. “We understand, Healer Deraga. We’ll find whatever is afflicting Lord Potter-Black.”

Harry’s mumble of, “It’s just _Harry_ ,” went ignored as the three new arrivals surrounded him, examining his scar in near-silence. He sat quietly as sharp-clawed fingers removed the bandage again and then poked at the still-bleeding scar. Occasionally, words were mumbled in either Gobbledegook or English.

While Bill and the goblins examined Harry, Deraga beckoned to Minerva quietly. She followed the healer toward the far side of the room.

“I know that I needn’t tell you to keep a close eye on them both when you return to Hogwarts,” Deraga said, her voice pitched not to carry. “Whoever did this is ruthless enough to think nothing of risking a little girl’s life by binding her core.”

Minerva offered a short nod, and looked over her shoulder; Bill, Nurguff, and Agkras were done poking at Harry and were instead talking in low tones, their voices urgent. Bill’s face was white as a sheet, and the oldest Weasley boy’s expression sent a frisson of fear up her spine. “I plan to take a much more active role as Head of Gryffindor for the remainder of the year,” she assured the goblin before her. Her lips pursed. “I should have done so far sooner.”

Before Deraga could reply to that, Agkras beckoned the women back over with a clawed hand.

“The boy’s scar is a horcrux,” he said bluntly. The word drew only blank looks from Hermione and Harry, but Minerva swallowed around a sudden lump in her throat.

“A horcrux,” she repeated slowly. She fisted her hands in her robes to stop them from shaking, and her brogue deepened with her next words. “Are you absolutely certain?”

“Yes, and I’d like to know how no one in that bloody great school of yours sensed something wrong with the boy’s scar.” That was Nurguff, whose teeth seemed even sharper than usual for a goblin.

Minerva’s hand rose, involuntarily, to her lips. Why _hadn’t_ she seen that there was something wrong with the boy’s scar? It was bad enough that she’d allowed Albus to leave Harry with the Dursleys so many years ago – but how had she been blinded to the scar?

“What’s a horcrux?” Harry asked from his position on the bed.

Bill turned to Harry, and something in his expression must have given some of it away, because Harry reached out from his bed for Hermione, who grabbed for his hand and held on tight. “It’s a piece of someone else’s soul, bound up in a container. So long as that piece of soul is safe, its owner can’t truly die,” he explained.

The words sent all colour fleeing from both Harry and Hermione’s faces, and Minerva thought that Bill was starting to look a bit green.

“It’s Voldemort’s, then,” Harry finally said, after a long moment during which no one spoke. He reached up toward his scar with a shaking hand. “I can see what he sees, sometimes. It’s – it must be why I could see your father being attacked by his snake,” he explained to Bill, who grimaced.

“We think something has kept the horcrux contained in your scar, though we’re not sure what,” he said. “Usually something this _Dark_ would kill a living creature almost immediately – that you’ve lived with it this long is nothing short of incredible.”

Harry and Hermione exchanged another look. “Harry, the diary,” Hermione prompted. At Bill’s questioning look, she explained, “Harry destroyed Voldemort’s diary when he saved Ginny’s life. He said Voldemort’s spirit, a _young_ Voldemort, came out of it and that he destroyed the diary with the fang of the basilisk that nearly killed him.” She squeezed Harry’s hand more tightly and asked, “Could that have been another horcrux?”

The question made even the three goblins blanch. “ _Another_ horcrux?” Nurguff grunted and turned to Agkras. The two conferred quietly for a time.

Bill allowed the goblins their space and crouched down in between the beds, his body angled toward Harry. “To have even _two_ horcruxes is nearly unheard of,” he said quietly. “Are you sure that the diary wasn’t just cursed?”

Harry’s jaw clenched, and he shook his head emphatically. “I didn’t even know there was a thing called a horcrux until today,” he said, “But the diary was controlling Ginny. It made her _do_ things, like let a basilisk out of the Chamber of Secrets and write threats on the walls in blood. I thought she was dead, when I found her in the chamber with Tom Riddle’s spirit. It talked to the basilisk and tried to kill me.”

Hermione added, “I don’t know how more of us didn’t notice something was terribly wrong. Ginny was such a little thing to begin with, I thought she was just _homesick_ …”

Bill’s expression had grown darker as Harry spoke, and he swore under his breath. “Mum never told me,” he said. “She said Ginny had been ill, but never any of…this.”

Hermione bit her lower lip. “Bill, I don’t think _anyone_ told your mum and dad. Headmaster Dumbledore lied and told my parents that I had Wizard’s Flu, when I was petrified by the basilisk. Maybe he didn’t know what the diary was.”

Bill stood abruptly and looked over at the two goblins. “You think there could be more, don’t you?” he asked, and even as Hermione and Minerva both gasped, he swore again. “How many?”

“Why would I know what your crazy dark wizard did to himself?” Nurguff growled.

Agkras grunted his agreement. “If he made two, there are more. That wizard is even more arrogant than most.” He tapped a short, claw-tipped finger against his chin. “There may be a way to use the boy’s scar to find them.” He eyed Bill with the dark brown orb not covered by a black leather patch.

“What about getting _rid_ of the one in Harry’s scar?” Hermione asked, and if her voice was a touch shrill, well, no one seemed to notice.

Bill shook his head. “On the _very_ few occasions when Gringotts has been called upon to destroy a horcrux, it has been in an inanimate object. We’ll need to research how we can remove the horcrux without hurting you, Harry.”

Harry swallowed, hard, but nodded his agreement. “If we can destroy the horcruxes – however many there are – then I can kill Voldemort?”

Agkras grunted. “If the horcruxes are gone, _anyone_ can kill him.”

“Then I’ll do whatever it takes,” Harry said firmly. “He has to be stopped. Even if it means hurting me or – or worse, to get rid of the one in my scar.” The way his voice cracked, twice, belied the brave expression on his face.

“Harry, _no_ , there has to be a way to get rid of it without killing you!” Hermione’s voice was even more shrill this time, and she untangled herself from the sheets of her bed to clamber into his, heedless of the way her nightgown tangled in her legs. Her arms wrapped around him and Harry flushed a dull crimson hue as he lightly petted the bushy hair that was already threatening to engulf him.

Minerva cleared her throat. “I’m sure that if Gringotts is conducting the research, a way will be found.” She glanced at Hermione, whose head was buried in Harry’s shoulder. “Perhaps Miss…Hermione could assist as well. I can arrange for full access to the Restricted Section.”

At that, Hermione lifted her head, her cheeks tear-stained, and offered a short nod before burying her face in Harry’s shoulder once again.

“Well,” Deraga said, “If you are all in agreement that there is research to be done and that there is nothing to be done about Harry’s scar this morning, then I will bid you, Mister Weasley, Agkras, Nurguff, a good morning. My patients require breakfast and more rest before they may be returned to the school.”

Though Minerva winced at the idea of missing additional classes – and at how Albus would react once she returned – she silently agreed that Hermione, at least, clearly needed more time before she would be ready to return to Hogwarts.

“Right-o, we’ll get started, Healer Deraga,” Bill agreed. He patted Harry on the boy’s free shoulder and offered a reassuring smile. “We’ll figure it out, me and the boys – and Hermione, of course. And I’ll be having a talk with Mum, and maybe Ginny, too. In fact, I might see you two next Hogsmeade weekend,” he mused. At Deraga’s somewhat impatient look, however, he cleared his throat. “Cheers, then. I’ll be in touch.”

The two male goblins grumbled their own goodbyes and followed Bill back out of the cavern.

Hermione finally seemed to realize that she was practically sitting in Harry’s lap wearing nothing but a nightgown, and turned bright red from the roots of her hair down to her neck as she unravelled her arms from around her friend and slipped out of the bed. She wobbled on unsteady feet but made it back to her own bed, where she sat on the edge and watched Harry steadily despite her apparent embarrassment. “I’ll need access to the Restricted Section as soon as possible, Professor,” she announced. “I won’t let Harry carry this around with him _one moment_ longer than necessary!”

If Minerva felt perturbed at the girl’s demanding tone, it was a feeling lost in the wave of tenderness she felt at seeing Hermione looking so fiercely protective of Harry. “I meant what I said, Hermione. You will have full access to the _entire_ library. And if you do not find anything useful there, I will see what can be done to get access to the Ministry’s library.”

That seemed to further calm the girl down, and she allowed Deraga to help her back into bed and tuck her into a seated position with the blankets folded neatly at her waist.

“We’ll let you break your fast, finally. You’ll feel right as rain after that, Hermione, and we’ll get you ready to travel back to the castle,” Deraga reassured them both.

As if summoned, a young male goblin entered the room, followed by two trays that floated behind him. Minerva backed out of the way as the trays floated past her to settle above Harry and Hermione’s laps. She could see poached eggs perched on each plate, as well as bangers and mushrooms. There were small teapots on each tray as well, and a cup for each student.

Minerva followed Deraga over to a table that appeared a short distance away from the beds and sat down for a cup of tea as well as a “chat about what could be done to protect the young Lord and Lady.”

After breakfast and a wash-up, Harry and Hermione waited patiently for Deraga’s final examination to be complete. The goblin looked over each of them intently before she nodded emphatically. “As I said, a little breakfast and you would be right as rain. You may both return to Hogwarts, but Hermione, as I said, you mustn’t practice any magic for the next five days. I have given Miss McGonagall a list of the potions that your Madam Pomfrey will need to prepare for you.”

Hermione murmured her agreement, and followed Deraga, Harry, and Minerva out of the cavern. A mine cart awaited them, and Harry helped Hermione into the back seat while Minerva settled into the seat next to the cart’s driver. Deraga leaned into the cart and clasped first Harry and then Hermione’s hands in her own. “This is where I will say goodbye, my Lord, my Lady. Be well.”

Hermione looked ready to say something, but the goblin said something to the driver, and the cart began to move, so she raised a hand in farewell instead.

After the initial lurch, the cart moved at a shockingly sedate pace up toward the surface; Minerva suspected that part of what Deraga had said to the driver was an admonishment to be careful. It took longer than usual, but eventually they reached the main floor of the bank, and after quiet thank-yous to the driver, Minerva ushered Harry and Hermione toward the bank entrance.

“We’ll Floo from the Leaky Cauldron to Hogsmeade, and from there to my office,” she explained, but a goblin teller stepped in front of her, bringing both witches and wizard to a halt.

“Miss, Ripnok bids you to use the Gringotts Floo. It will save time and be more private for our customers,” he explained. His voice was high-pitched, and though he wore the same uniform as the other tellers, there were additional symbols on the placket of his dark, woollen suit coat.

A puzzled smile crept over Minerva’s face, but she nodded her agreement. “Very well, thank you…?”

“Gnurlek, Miss. This way, please.”

Once more in the care of goblins, the three followed Gnurlek toward a small door to one side of the cavernous main hall of Gringotts. Beyond the door was a room that held no more than a large fireplace, a circular table with a pot of Floo powder, and an armed guard.

“Three to use the Floo, Lurtok,” Gnurlek announced. “Ripnok authorized it.”

The guard just grunted and tapped the butt of his spear against the marble floor lightly before he stood at attention. Minerva thanked Gnurlek once more, and ushered Harry and Hermione to the fireplace. “The destination will again be Urquart Cottage,” she announced, and in quick succession all three of the humans in the room disappeared through the green flames.


	21. Return to Hogwarts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place partially concurrently with the previous chapter.

Thursday morning dawned just like any other at Hogwarts; students rose from their beds and began their daily routine of bathing and dressing for the day. Even before seven, a few of the earliest risers were already trickling into the Great Hall, where platters heaped with pale yellow scrambled eggs, piping hot bangers, and crispy roasted potatoes were beginning to pop into existence at each table. Toast racks, butter dishes, and pots of marmalade mingled with the occasional bowl of steaming porridge and jar of honey.

By half seven, the Great Hall was full and nearly every seat was taken at the Gryffindor table; there was room for only two more, and both of those empty spaces faced Ron Weasley. Ron’s plate, once the home of several bangers, some bacon, and roasted potatoes, was still piled high with half-eaten eggs and buttered toast. The redhead watched the doors to the hall with ill-disguised concern even as he ate mechanically.

As they did every morning, owls began to fill the hall and drop letters and packages into the hands of waiting students and professors. At the staff table, Madam Pomfrey accepted an envelope from a post owl and looked it over curiously; while the letter was addressed to _Madam Poppy Pomfrey, Mediwitch, Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry_ , there was no return address.

She peeled back the generic wax seal and pulled the slender piece of parchment from its envelope. She read the letter quickly, and then looked down the table toward the seat where Minerva McGonagall usually sat. Her face pale, she quickly excused herself from breakfast and hurried up to the hospital wing. If the students noticed, no one said anything, but Albus Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed in suspicion and he, too, looked toward the empty chair reserved for the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts.

When breakfast concluded a few minutes later, Ron stood from the Gryffindor table and exchanged a look with Neville. The other boy shrugged helplessly, but followed the redhead to their first class. “D’you think Harry’s in the hospital wing?” Neville asked as they exited the doors of the hall.

“Dunno. Lavender said Hermione didn’t come back to the dorm last night either…”

Dumbledore exited the hall as well, and returned to his offices. The chair behind his desk became a highly cushioned, chintz-covered affair with a wave of his hand, and with a grumble he settled into it and steepled his hands before him. He waited like that, in a meditative state, for nearly two hours before the castle wards notified him of the change he had been expecting.

Across the castle, in Professor McGonagall’s offices, Harry tumbled out of the fireplace. The professor and Hermione were both well away from the hearth, and the professor had apparently already vanished the soot from her robes, as well as Hermione’s. Harry picked himself up and cleared his throat with some embarrassment; after so many years at Hogwarts and in the magical world in general, he still _hated_ travelling via the Floo Network.

Professor McGonagall lifted her wand and cast a silent spell that swept away the ashes and soot from his robes as well. Harry nodded his thanks, and looked to Hermione, who was still, he thought, a touch too pale.

“Thank you, Professor, for taking so much time to accompany Harry and I,” Hermione said into the quiet of the office.

The professor’s lips twitched, and she nodded, briefly, as she stepped behind her desk. One hand swept up a short stack of parchment paper. “It is my duty as your Head of House to ensure that you are both safe, Hermione. I only wish that I had noticed much sooner that something was so very _amiss_.” The words pitched higher as the sentence finished, and McGonagall gave Hermione what Harry thought was a rather guilty look.

“Madam Pomfrey didn’t see anything either,” Harry defended. “Deraga told us that it was hidden magic.”

“Well, you may both be assured that I will be keeping a much closer eye on you for the remainder of your time here at Hogwarts, Harry. Healer Deraga and I agree that the risk to you both may still remain.” McGonagall pursed her lips. “I _truly_ am sorry that I did not see how you must have suffered, Hermione.”

Before Hermione could reply, the door to the office swung open so quickly that it hit the nearest wall with a _thunk_ , and Headmaster Dumbledore strode into the room without so much as a knock. Gone was the usual twinkle in his eyes, and Harry caught a brief glimpse of an enraged expression on his face before it was covered up by a more sombre mien. The rust red robes he wore, silken and covered in blackbirds, only added to the boy’s impression of the Headmaster’s mood.

“Professor McGonagall, Miss Granger, Harry,” Dumbledore greeted. Harry straightened up, and his gaze went straight to Hermione.

“It’s Lady Dagworth-Granger now, actually,” Hermione murmured.

The Headmaster continued on as if Hermione hadn’t spoken. “Professor McGonagall, we missed you at breakfast and I am told your first and second Transfiguration classes were cancelled. I hope you are not unwell?”

McGonagall reviewed the parchments in her hands and placed them back on the desk before responding. “I am not unwell, Headmaster,” she replied formally, and calmly. “As is my duty as the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts, I accompanied Lady Dagworth-Granger and Lord Potter-Black to Gringotts to take care of a number of _personal_ matters.”

“And why were two _underage_ students permitted to stay in an undisclosed location overnight?”

Dumbledore’s voice was still even, but Harry thought he detected an edge to it. “Hermione got sick and the goblins let us stay until she was feeling better,” he interjected.

 _That_ made the headmaster’s eyes widen fractionally, but the older wizard continued, “Students are not permitted to leave the school during term. And to allow them to stay somewhere without their guardian’s permission overnight is quite unwise, Professor McGonagall.”

The words caused Professor McGonagall to draw herself up to her full height. There was an angry glint in her eyes, and her brogue deepened as she spoke. “I hardly think that ensuring my niece is able to take on her responsibilities as the Head of House Dagworth-Granger is _unwise,_ Headmaster. In fact, it is fortunate that we were visiting Gringotts yesterday, as the goblins were able to cure her where Madam Pomfrey failed.”

Professor McGonagall had stepped closer to Hermione and her hand was on the girl’s shoulder by the time she finished speaking. While Harry didn’t have the faintest idea as to just when the professor had become his best friend’s _aunt_ , he just watched while Dumbledore’s expression darkened.

“Be that as it may, Minerva, there are consequences when a professor disobeys a direct order from the Headmaster of this school,” he said.

“Actually, _Albus_ , the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts is _obligated_ to assist the scions and heads of Noble and Ancient Houses if they are required to leave the school to complete family business,” McGonagall retorted. “I should think you would know that.”

The room seemed to grow colder as the two professors glared at one another, and the absurdity of the situation made Harry’s stomach churn. Dumbledore had been keeping things from him for months, perhaps years, and even now he seemed bent on haranguing Professor McGonagall rather than showing any concern for one of the students in his care.

“Did you know that Hermione was cursed?” Harry demanded before Dumbledore could respond to Professor McGonagall. “Healer Deraga said that if she wasn’t such a strong witch she would be _dead_ by now.”

His words startled the headmaster, but the older man just raked his gaze over Harry before regaining his composure. “Of course not, Harry. And I am glad that Miss Granger is fully recovered. But as I said, there are consequences…”

“Yes, the consequence that Hermione might have _died_ if the goblins hadn’t helped us. Madam Pomfrey just kept dosing her with potions and Hermione never got _better_!”

Dumbledore’s lips thinned, briefly, as he pressed them together. His momentary silence only made Harry angrier; the headmaster had expressed relief that Hermione wasn’t sick, but it didn’t sound entirely sincere.

“Did you know that my scar is a horcrux?” he demanded before Dumbledore could say anything else.

Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed as they flicked up toward the lightning bolt scar in question. “I had my suspicions, Harry,” he allowed, and hurried on before he could be interrupted. “There was a reason that I did not tell you of the prophecy until this past spring; I wanted you to experience childhood unburdened by what was only a _suspicion_ on my part…”

Harry’s right hand cut through the air in a sharp, dismissive gesture. “Bill Weasley knew what it was after looking at it for _five minutes._ You can’t tell me you’ve had ‘suspicions’ and never tried to verify them.”

“Harry, I –”

“I’ve been walking around with a piece of _Voldemort_ in my head and you never saw anything? None of you ever saw _anything_!?” Harry demanded as his voice rose to a shout. “Were you just going to let me go off to fight Voldemort and put me down after, like – like an old dog?”

Professor McGonagall looked stricken, and she didn’t just have a hand on Hermione’s shoulder, Harry noticed from the corner of his eye – the woman had an arm around his best friend, whose eyes were filling with tears.

“Of course not,” Dumbledore finally managed to say, and some of the warmth returned to his eyes. “I wanted you to have a _normal_ childhood, a normal time at school. How could I allow you to have the knowledge of such a terrible thing hanging over your head, Harry? Especially when there is no known means of fixing the problem…”

Harry shook his head violently. “Bill Weasley’s already researching it. Have you even looked for a way to get rid of it?”

The older wizard’s eyes widened again, before giving Harry a stern look. “The fact that there is a horcrux in your scar must be kept secret, Harry. There are some who would say it makes you much like Voldemort, yourself.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Gringotts is willing to help solve the problem for one of their _biggest customers_. Bill and his associates were sworn to secrecy,” he said disdainfully. “That’s something else you kept from me, Headmaster – until June I lived in Dudley’s castoffs and thought there was just enough gold in my vault to pay for my Hogwarts’ supplies.

“But it turns out my father was a _Lord_ and so was Sirius, and now I’m a bloody Lord too – but you let me go on for five years not knowing that James Potter was a bloody Lord with a bloody seat in the Wizengamot!” He was panting by the time he finished, and his heart was pounding in his ears. He could see that the tears in Hermione’s eyes had begun to spill over and make silvery tracks down her cheeks.

Dumbledore’s face took on a sorrowful mien. “Harry, I never wanted to hurt you. Taking on the role of Head of a magical House is an enormous responsibility, and with the many other challenges you are facing I thought that such a burden could wait until you graduated from Hogwarts…”

“The Potter line might have been _dead_ by then,” Harry snapped.

Dumbledore’s eyes met Harry’s, and he nodded his head gravely. “You are entirely right, Harry. I should have told you about your role as Lord Potter. But you must forgive an old man his mistakes – I only ever wanted to protect you.”

Harry shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and the fingertips of his left hand bumped up against the silver pectoral he’d found for Ron in the Potter vault. He’d forgotten all about it. “We both want the same thing, Headmaster. I want Voldemort dead too, after all he’s done. But you keep leaving me in the dark. I’m tired of being treated like a – like a chess piece!” he exclaimed.

“Harry, my boy, you’re not a chess piece.” His voice had turned kind and grandfatherly, and the thrumming of Harry’s heartbeat in his ears slowed as some of his ire started to wane.

“You could have fooled me. You’ve kept me ignorant of the prophecy, about why Voldemort’s after me, about my _family_ – and now about the fact that I might have to _die_ to make sure he stays dead!”

“Harry, we can talk about this…” Dumbledore’s voice almost sounded pleading.

Scrubbing a hand through his hair, Harry dipped his head. “Yeah – we’ll talk, Headmaster.” But then his attention turned back to Hermione for a second, and he thought she looked rather pale, even with Healer Deraga’s work and the sleep they’d both gotten while deep under the bank. He shook himself. “Hermione still needs rest, though. It will have to wait,” he said, and to Harry’s surprise, his tone was more akin to the noble he’d suddenly become than the schoolboy who had left Hogwarts the previous afternoon.

His words must have stirred McGonagall to action, as she let her arm fall from its place around Hermione’s shoulder. “Indeed, Albus. Hermione needs to see Madam Pomfrey to discuss her ongoing care. I am certain we can all continue this conversation _later_. If you will excuse us, Harry and I will escort Hermione to the Hospital Wing.”

Harry thought that the headmaster looked rather gobsmacked at the fact that Professor McGonagall had pushed back. Or perhaps it was the fact that Harry had told him off. Whatever it was, the headmaster wordlessly allowed the three of them past. Harry caught him staring into the fireplace before he swept out of the deputy headmistress’ office and hurried in the opposite direction in a flurry of red velvet.

When they reached the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey greeted them with a sort of enthusiastic urgency that took Harry quite by surprise. “Miss Granger, Mister Potter. Please, have a seat. Professor McGonagall, I’m so glad you’re here,” she said as she bustled closer.

Harry exchanged a confused look with Hermione, but before either could ask just why the mediwitch was practically _excited_ to see them, Professor McGonagall pulled a document from the pocket of her robes. “Poppy, why don’t we all sit? Hermione has had a rather…exciting twenty-four hours,” she said.

When both students and faculty members were seated, Madam Pomfrey looked over Hermione and her wand moved quickly as she cast a set of diagnostic charms. “You’re looking _much_ better. When I received that letter this morning, I looked for all three of you, but you were nowhere to be found!”

Seeing the expressions of confusion on their faces, Madam Pomfrey cast a silent _accio_ and a piece of parchment sailed across the infirmary to settle in her hand. “It was sent anonymously. I didn’t know what to make of it, but it might explain some of Miss Granger’s symptoms,” she explained as McGonagall read the letter with pursed lips before passing it to Harry and Hermione.

_Madam Pomfrey:_

_I have reason to believe that Harry Potter may have been given inexpertly-prepared potions. I have found evidence of a love potion in my home, as well as recipes for additional potions and instructions for casting several unpleasant-sounding spells. It is possible that Hermione Granger has been similarly affected._

_Sincerely,_

_A Concerned Parent_

Harry looked up from the letter. “When did you receive this? Only – we’ve just come back from Gringotts, and a healer there cleansed Hermione and I of a few different things. But they were spells, not potions.”

Madam Pomfrey frowned and cast several nonverbal charms at Harry as well. “An owl delivered it at breakfast just this morning. You were treated by a _Gringotts healer_?” she asked, and exchanged a significant look with Professor McGonagall. “They don’t usually treat wizards.”

It took the better part of an hour for Harry, Hermione, and Professor McGonagall to explain what the last day had been like, and how Hermione – and Harry – had come to be treated by a goblin healer. By silent agreement they did not mention the horcrux, but Harry shared in scathing tones his opinion of the fact that no one had found the magical block _or_ the other spells afflicting Hermione.

He expected Madam Pomfrey to bristle and become angry with him at the way he practically insulted her skills, but Harry hardly knew what to do when instead the mediwitch’s face crumpled into a look of utter devastation.

“Oh, I _knew_ something was wrong, Miss Granger, but none of my diagnostic charms showed a thing,” Madam Pomfrey said rather tearfully, and in fact she conjured a handkerchief with which to dab at her eyes. “After the last time that you came to see me, I consulted with an expert at St Mungo’s and they promised to research your symptoms.”

Hermione offered a small, reassuring smile to the mediwitch. “I know you believed me, Madam Pomfrey. Healer Deraga said that some of the spells were cast by a very strong wizard,” she said.

At that, Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall shared a significant look, but then Madam Pomfrey smiled at Hermione and patted her hand lightly. “I’m just so glad that you’re well again. I’ll have these new potions ready for you this evening – I’ll send a house elf to you so that you don’t have to come all the way to the hospital wing again,” she explained.

Hermione’s smile turned tense at that, but she nodded her agreement. “Thank you, Madam,” she murmured.

“Indeed, thank you, Madam Pomfrey,” Professor McGonagall repeated. “Now, Harry, why don’t you escort Hermione back to the Gryffindor tower?”

When Hermione began to protest, Madam Pomfrey added, “I’m sure you still need your rest, Miss Granger. Your core still needs to heal, and sleep will only help. I am excusing you _both_ from classes for the remainder of the day.”

Harry acquiesced without much protest – he hadn’t been looking forward to Defence Against the Dark Arts, despite it having been his favourite subject in years past. He offered his hand to Hermione and with a repetition of the thanks they had already offered to Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey, they left the hospital wing and walked back to the Gryffindor Common Room.

With classes in session, the halls were practically deserted, and they didn’t run into a single student on the slow walk to their house. Harry didn’t mind at all that Hermione let him hold her hand the entire way there. When they reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, the portrait’s eyes narrowed and a disapproving frown marred her face.

“Out of class, I see. Oh very well, I suppose you look rather _peaky_ , young lady,” she announced. “Password?”

Harry pursed his lips at the Fat Lady’s comment. “Snargaluff,” he announced, and the portrait nodded regally before swinging open to reveal the common room.

The red and gold-hued room was as deserted as the halls, and Harry breathed a quiet sigh of relief that he wouldn’t need to explain where they’d been – at least not just yet. Instead, the portrait swung shut once more to seal them in the blissful quiet.

They stood in silence for a long moment, until finally Hermione cleared her throat. “Well…I’m going to get some more sleep, like Madam Pomfrey said. We can visit the library later and research the…well, the you-know-what,” she said, and looked up at Harry. He tried not to sigh at the way her cinnamon-hued eyes made his heart tumble over a few times, and instead reluctantly let go of her hand.

“Sleep well, Hermione. I’m – I’m just glad you’re feeling better. We can go to the library whenever you’re ready,” he replied.

Hermione smiled up at him, and then leaned in close. Harry gulped, but all she did was brush her lips, feather-light, against his cheek before leaving his side to climb the stairs to the girls’ dorms. “Thank you, Harry,” she called when her feet found the top step.

Harry watched her until she disappeared behind the door into the dormitories. With a gusty sigh, he made his way up the stairs to the boys’ dormitories to put away his things and find something to occupy his time until Hermione woke up.

He’d settled on completing his Charms and Transfiguration homework – he would rather have gone flying, but didn’t want to leave Hermione alone in the dorms – and Harry spent several hours tucked in a corner of the common room. Several of his housemates came and went, but none were sixth years no one paid much attention to his presence.

He was just putting the finishing touches on his Transfiguration essay when Hermione found him. She’d changed into one of her muggle dresses. This one was dark blue, with a high neckline that skimmed her collarbone and a band of scrunched fabric that wrapped around her waist. The fabric looked soft enough to touch, and Harry swallowed, hard, at the way it clung to her. The dress ended well below her knees, but he could still see her ankles and calves, stocking-covered though they were.

“Alright, Harry?”

He shook himself, and smiled up at her. “Yeah,” he said, and meant it. “Ready to go to the library? I’ve just got to put these scrolls away.”

Hermione shoved her hair behind her left ear and peered down at the scrolls as Harry stood. “Are those essays? Were you…completing your homework _early_?”

Harry could feel himself blushing, and he picked up the scrolls quickly. “I thought I’d get caught up, since we’ll probably need to make up today’s classes, and we can’t all be the brightest witch at Hogwarts.” He ended on a teasing note, and watched as Hermione’s cheeks filled with colour.

“Oh, well…” Hermione ducked her head. “We should get to the library before classes are over and the tables are all full.”

Harry hurried up the stairs to the boys’ dorms and put his scrolls away; when he got back downstairs, Hermione was still waiting.

By unspoken consent they took their time walking through the castle despite Hermione’s concern about the tables being full. When they finally made it to the library, the sun was high in the sky, and its rays were turning the wooden tables a nearly tangerine hue where the light shone in from the windows. Hermione waved Harry off to one such table while she hurried straight toward the card catalogue; when she came back, Harry saw, there were four books in her arms and she was nearly staggering under their weight. He stood to help her, but she just dropped all four on the tables between them.

“ _The Responsibilities of Power_?” Harry asked, reading the first books title. “I thought we were going to look for information on the…well, you know,” he finished, waving a hand up towards his scar.

“Well get to that later,” Hermione proclaimed. “Professor McGonagall hasn’t given me a pass to the Restricted Section yet. But if you don’t want any more… _undue influence_ in your life, Harry, you’ll need to understand your rights as Lord Potter-Black.”

Harry nodded, and watched while Hermione took the second book in the pile; that one was called _Estate Planning for the Modern Noble Wizard_. “So… _Lady_ Dagworth-Granger, I imagine these will be helpful to you as well. I thought you said you didn’t have any magical relatives.”

Hermione blanched, and opened the book to review its table of contents. “I thought I didn’t either. But my dad – he’s not a muggle, Harry. He’s a _squib_. My Grandpa Ollie is actually Oliver Dagworth-Granger, Vida Dagworth-Granger’s brother, but he was a squib too. And when Vida died, and didn’t have any children, Gringotts went looking for a magical relative. And they found one: me,” she explained.

Harry scratched the back of his head, still looking at Hermione. “So you really _are_ related to Hector Dagworth-Granger,” he said, with a little grin. “Won’t that entertain Slughorn?”

“ _Professor_ Slughorn, Harry. And yes – I’m his great-granddaughter. That’s not the only thing, though. I’m not nearly as wealthy as you, but…when I put on the Dagworth-Granger ring, I became _Baroness_ Dagworth-Granger. Gringotts turned over the vault to me, and the deed to a _manor._ Harry, she had _house elves._ ” Her voice rose, shrilly, on the last two words, resulting in a few dirty looks from a pair of Hufflepuffs two tables over. Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment and she ducked her head.

Harry reached over and rubbed Hermione’s arm. His heart flip-flopped and he cleared his throat to hide the way touching her skin made his heart start to race. There were no more tingles; he wondered if that had been the aversion charm. “You’d be a lot nicer to them than most wizards with house elves, you know,” he said. “And if you’re _Lady Dagworth-Granger_ , you can change things, can’t you? Like you told me I could.” He watched conflicting emotions play out over her face; she looked angry, which didn’t surprise him, but speculative as well.

“It’s the principle of the thing, Harry. But Belrig – I have an account manager now, if you can believe it – Belrig did say that they’d die without a bond. He thinks there are two, up at the manor. It’s probably beautiful,” Hermione mused. “It’s up by Cheltenham, in the Cotswolds.”

Harry offered a nod. “There aren’t any Potter elves left. Ripnok and Archin think that Dumbledore must have arranged for them to bond with other families, after my parents died.” He frowned. “Not that he was supposed to…but better that than the alternative I guess.” He shook himself a little, and returned his attention to Hermione. “Are you going to go see it?”

“I think so, although I’ll have to convince my parents…” Hermione sighed, and straightened up in her chair. “I have to tell my parents about all of this. Professor McGonagall said that back before the Second World War – the muggle one – the old families used to obliviate squibs and then set them up as muggles. Grandpa Ollie and Grandma Isla – really, Isla Urquart – are both squibs. Grandma Isla is Elphinstone Urquart’s sister, and he was married to Professor McGonagall.”

Harry’s eyes widened in understanding. “Is that why McGonagall called you her niece?” he asked.

She looked at him again from over the top of the book. “She’s technically my great-aunt-in-law, I suppose, but I think she told Headmaster Dumbledore to protect herself – and me.” Hermione paused, and her expression turned more serious. “Harry, Ron had such a… _reaction_ when you told him about everything last month. I think I’d like to keep this quiet for a little while, just until I’ve had some time to get used to it.”

Harry’s eyebrows rose. “But isn’t Ron your…?”

“Please?”

At Hermione’s look of desperation, his hand slid down to rest over hers, and he nodded. “I won’t say anything to him, Hermione. But you _will_ have to tell him before he finds out from anyone else – it’s only a matter of time before it becomes public. And you know how Ron will be if he finds out from someone else.”

Hermione murmured her agreement and turned her hand to clasp his more fully. Harry squeezed her hand tightly. They stayed like that, each reading in silence, until the sun was low in the sky and Madam Pince came to chase them out of the library ahead of supper.


	22. She's Not for You

Harry had been missing all day. Ron had expected to see him at breakfast or in Herbology, or during one of their study periods. Instead there was an empty space at the Gryffindor table during breakfast, as well as in the greenhouse. Professor Sprout hadn’t been concerned; she’d just instructed the class to observe the snargaluff and told them that they would be harvesting the pods in the coming weeks. Even stranger, when he asked Ginny about Harry’s absence, she had told him that Professor McGonagall was reportedly missing from her first and second classes. According to her, the Head of House had swept into the Transfiguration classroom at the beginning of the second year Hufflepuffs’ class and set them to turning beetles into buttons.

Partway through the day Ron realized that Hermione was missing as well; she hadn’t been at breakfast, but it wasn’t until Charms that he realized she was gone. Without either of his best friends anywhere to be found, Ron endured Charms and finally Defence Against the Dark Arts without them. At least Professor Snape had realized after that first class that pairing Ron with Draco was like having Seamus in Potions all over again: bound to cause an explosion.

Instead, the greasy git had assigned Ron to work with Lavender once more, and Ron had to admit that he enjoyed trading hexes with the bouncy, buxom blonde. He enjoyed it when she batted her eyelashes at him and giggled, although when he finally got around to asking her about Hermione the girl had told him, wide-eyed, that not only was Hermione not in class – she hadn’t even come back to the dorms the night before. _That_ made him feel guilty: why hadn’t he noticed that she was missing last night? For that matter, didn’t Harry fail to come back to the dorms last night, as well?

Ron was the last Gryffindor to leave Snape’s classroom, and he realized that had been a mistake when he heard shoes shuffle on the floor behind him. “Where’s Potter and your little girlfriend?” The voice was Pansy Parkinson’s. “Did they run off together?”

The words pricked at Ron and he could already feel the tips of his ears burn as blood rushed to them, but he ignored both the Slytherin’s words and the high-pitched titter that came with them.

“It’s not surprising, really. What mudblood wouldn’t choose money over a poor blood traitor? She’s smart, even if she _is_ filthy.” That was Nott, and Ron’s ears burned hotter, even as he pulled his wand and turned. Nott was smirking at him from over Parkinson’s shoulder with that rabbity face of his, and Parkinson’s blood-red lips peeled back from her teeth as she grinned.

“I reckon you’re right, Theo. Oh!” Parkinson exclaimed, as if she’d just noticed that Ron had spun around and had his wand aimed at them both. “Did we upset you, Weasel? I’m sorry to hear that your muddy, scarlet woman of a girlfriend is cheating on you.”

Ron saw red. It was bad enough that his best friends were missing; now the Slytherins were twisting the knife. “Oi! Don’t you call her that!” The words came out as a growl.

Parkinson giggled again, and turned toward Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, who’d exited the classroom as well. “Oh, _Draco_ , darling, the Weasel is upset about Potter and Granger running away together. Don’t you think we should make him feel better?”

Ron kept his wand trained on Nott and Parkinson, but his eyes found Malfoy behind them. He expected the blond Slytherin to join in the laughter, as Crabbe and Goyle did, but instead he just stared at Ron. His eyes were shadowed, as though he hadn’t gotten nearly enough sleep. The boy’s robes were neatly pressed, and his Prefect badge shone against the black wool, but something about his expression and the way he stood made Ron think there was something awfully wrong with him.

The laughter from the four Slytherins died off, and as the silence extended, Parkinson and Nott’s smirks fell from their faces. “Oh, Pansy. Granger wouldn’t behave like _you_.” The words were drawled out, and Parkinson squealed her outrage.

“ _Dra-co_!” Pansy’s voice was a whine, one so shrill that Ron had to resist the urge to cover his ears.

The wizard in question just sniffed and gave Crabbe and Goyle a haughty look. “Crabbe, Goyle, I’m sure Pansy and Theo need to get back to the common room. After all, my godfather assigned a rather _long_ essay. Why don’t you all go together? The hallways aren’t as _safe_ as they used to be.”

As Ron watched, flabbergasted but with his wand still aimed, four of the five Slytherins reluctantly trailed away from him and Malfoy. The other boy must have been waiting for them to get far enough away, because he watched Ron quietly until the echo of their footsteps against the stone floor had long since died away. “Why did you do that? Are you looking for a repeat of our…duel?” he finally asked, hesitating over the final word.

Malfoy snorted and looked pointedly at Ron’s wand, which he lowered slightly but didn’t put away. “Granger’s not like that. She’s an insufferable know-it-all, but she wouldn’t cheat.” The words seemed like they were pulled from him.

Ron’s blue eyes met Malfoy’s pale grey ones, and he nodded slowly. He knew he should be annoyed by Malfoy’s characterization of Hermione as insufferable even though he had – inexplicably – defended her character. “Thanks,” he finally said, and turned to go, but the other boy’s next words stopped him in his tracks.

“She’s not for you.”

Ron turned back, his ears burning again. “What business is it of yours? Didn’t you just say she wouldn’t cheat?”

Malfoy shrugged once more. “She wouldn’t. But you’ve been looking for Potter, not her, and you _clearly_ prefer blonds.”

“I’ve been looking for them both,” Ron defended. “And how would _you_ know if I prefer blondes?” For a moment his mind flashed back to that first Defence class, when he’d slashed open Draco’s shirt, and he shoved his free hand through his hair to distract himself from the memory.

Malfoy just smirked. “Any idiot can see the way you look at Brown, Weasley. And…at others. You never look at Granger like that.” He crossed the distance between them and sniffed the air around Ron, ignoring the willow and unicorn hair wand that the taller boy held. “You should be careful of what you drink,” he murmured, and brushed past him. He disappeared quickly around the next bend in the hallway, leaving Ron standing in the empty, low-lit hallway with his mouth gaping open.

* * *

By silent agreement, Harry and Hermione left the library only a few minutes before supper. It was Harry who shelved the books on nobility and estate planning, but Hermione took with her a slim volume on traditional etiquette and a much thicker one titled _Policies and Procedures in the Wizengamot_. At Harry’s look, she wryly offered, “I’m just checking them out for a bit of light reading.” The words made Harry laugh as he followed Hermione from the doors of the library, the sound echoing in the stone hallway that led to the staircase that would take them down to the Great Hall.

It was the first time Hermione had heard Harry genuinely _laugh_ in quite some time, and she smiled up at him rather shyly as they strolled down the wide set of stairs. Her heart beat just a bit faster, and at that moment it had nothing to do with curses, or potions, or pain of any kind. Instead it was the flash of green eyes and the low-toned but full-throated laughter that caught her and made butterflies take flight in her stomach.

Absently, she touched the pendant still in place just below the centre of her collarbone. Harry had given it to her to protect her, he’d said. The diamond and white gold necklace was beautiful, and it looked like a gift from a lover. Hermione’s cheeks heated at the thought. Just as quickly, she pushed down the very idea. She was with Ron…wasn’t she? His face loomed large in her mind for a moment, and Hermione startled as she realized that she felt nothing like what she’d felt even the week before. The thought filled her with suspicion, but when Harry looked at her as if he’d caught her train of thought she just shook her head.

It took only a few minutes, even at their slow pace, to reach the Great Hall, and Hermione took a deep breath as they approached the open doors. Though she and Harry hadn’t even been gone for twenty-four hours, Hermione fully expected fallout from their disappearance, even if no one knew about her newfound status just yet. She twisted her ring so that the design was turned toward the inside of her hand; anyone who wasn’t paying close attention would only see a thin, silver-coloured band around her right ring finger.

Though Hermione found herself wanting to hold Harry’s hand as they walked toward the Gryffindor table, she instead kept her arms at her sides and resisted the urge to clutch at her robes. Most of their housemates had already arrived, and a few began to whisper as they made their way to the middle of the table, where there were two seats across from Ron and in between Neville and Dean.

Hermione allowed Harry to steady her as she sat and swung her legs around the bench before he sat; after Deraga’s healing, a full night’s sleep, and a nap in her dorm she felt better, but still not quite recovered.

Neville, Dean, and Ron were all staring at them, and Seamus was looking at them from Dean’s other side as well. Hermione cleared her throat uncomfortably but reached for the platter in front of her and took a piece of roasted chicken. Harry silently offered to scoop some cauliflower cheese onto her plate, but she shook her head and murmured a request for the steamed broccoli and buttered rice instead. While she believed Deraga and Madam Pomfrey knew what they were doing, cheese didn’t seem like the wisest choice, at least not right away.

The hall quieted somewhat as other students filled their own plates and began to eat, but finally Ron’s voice rang out: “Where have you _been_?” he demanded. He was staring at Harry, although his eyes periodically flickered to Hermione.

Hermione exchanged a look with Harry, who spoke first: “We were at Gringotts, and Hermione got sick, so the goblins kept us overnight.”

Ron’s mouth dropped open, and this time he stared at Hermione, whose cheeks flushed slightly. The faint scent of something sweet wafted beneath her nose, standing out in the mix of the savoury odours from their supper, and it made her nose wrinkle. Her pendant warmed against her skin beneath her clothes, almost to the point of pain, and Hermione had to stop herself from reaching up to touch it again. She squirmed in discomfort and relaxed only minutely when Harry’s hand right hand found her left beneath the table.

“The goblins _kept you_ overnight? Why? Why didn’t McGonagall just apparate you back to Hogwarts, Herms?”

She flinched at the hated nickname. Ron knew that she disliked it when he called her that. “You can’t apparate onto Hogwarts’ grounds, and I was too sick to travel,” she said quietly.

At that, Ron’s eyes widened, and he looked at Hermione more closely. “Are you alright now, then?”

“Yes, I’m feeling much better now,” she answered. “When we returned to Hogwarts this morning, Madam Pomfrey gave me some new medication and I’ve been told not to use my magic for the next week.”

“No magic for a _week_?” That was Neville, who leaned forward so that he could see her around Harry. His brows were drawn down so that a worry-line appeared between them, and his eyes were filled with concern. “Madam Pomfrey doesn’t usually demand that unless your magical core has been drained, Hermione. Are you _sure_ you’re alright?”

Harry’s hand squeezed hers under the table. Neville had made a guess uncomfortably close to the truth – and much faster than Hermione had expected of anyone, much less their forgetful friend. “It’s just a precaution,” she said. “I’ll be cleared in a few days and I’ll be back to normal.”

Ron eyed her again but seemed to take her words at face value as he went back to eating. His plate was piled even higher than usual with the steak and kidney pie from further down the Gryffindor table, although he was eating more or less neatly. From the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Neville glancing at her hand where it held Harry’s, and she reluctantly released it under the table. Harry winced but said nothing.

Gradually, the empty serving platters and bowls began to disappear as the Hogwarts students ate their full. Once the last dish had disappeared, the dinner plates and silverware went with them. They were replaced by smaller, clean dishes; all along the table, platters of Chorley cakes, Battenberg cakes, and bowls of cut-up fruit appeared. There were teapots scattered between the platters, and Hermione poured herself a cup to find that it was an herbal tisane. She wasn’t surprised; it was evening, after all, and the caffeine in a good, strong black tea would keep the younger students awake long past bedtime.

“Pudding on a Thursday?” Dean asked. Hermione gave a soft ‘hmm’ of agreement in response to Dean’s confusion, but Ron just grinned and – even though he’d eaten twice as much as she and Harry put together – filled his dish with slices of Battenberg cake and several Chorley cakes besides.

Hermione sipped her tea and refused offers of cake from both Neville and Harry. Ron didn’t offer, even before the other two boys tried to do so, and while a week ago she would have been upset with him for it, as the pendant hung hot against her skin she wondered at her own indifference. If anyone noticed her introspection they must have decided it was exhaustion, for Harry helped her up as the last of the plates vanished and Headmaster Dumbledore dismissed them all from their supper.

She followed her fellow Gryffindors up to the tower, surrounded by the sixth-year boys. From the corner of one eye she saw that Dean and Seamus were holding hands, with the sleeves of their robes serving to partially disguise their closeness. A smile played along her lips, and when Harry looked down at her curiously, she nodded, ever so slightly, to the two boys. “When do you think that happened?” she asked in a whisper, so that no one else could hear them. The sounds of their shoes against the stone floors helped to cover her words.

Harry’s eyes darted to his dormmates, and he shrugged, but his hand found Hermione’s again and he squeezed lightly. “Dunno,” he whispered back. “But it’s alright with me.”

“Me too.” Their hands came apart as they reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, held open for them by Neville.

Ron was already headed for the wizarding chess set by the windows, and Harry guided Hermione over to a far corner of the common room where two chairs had been left empty. “Harry,” Hermione started, “We each missed _all_ of our classes today. Hadn’t we better get started on our homework?”

Harry pushed a hand through his hair, but nodded his agreement. “We should, but Hermione, we agreed we would research the – you know. And,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “We still don’t know who cursed us and bound your magic.”

Hermione’s fingertips rose involuntarily to touch the pendant beneath her robes, and her eyes darted over to Ron before she looked away quickly.

It wasn’t quickly enough. Harry followed her eyes and frowned, suddenly. “Hermione,” he started. “You don’t think _Ron_ did this to you – cast those spells…do you?”

Hermione squirmed in her chair and her lips thinned into an uncomfortable, flat line. “Well he couldn’t have cast the dampening spell,” she whispered. “If Deraga is right about the timing, he would have been a small child when that happened. But…Harry, I know he’s your best friend, _our_ best friend. But he…” She fell silent.

The common room filled the silence between them with the noise of first years playing Exploding Snap, the scraping of quills on parchment as a group of third years wrote essays, and the giggles of Lavender and Parvati. Harry met her cinnamon-hued eyes with darkened green ones, and waited.

“Tonight, at supper,” she finally hissed, “The pendant you gave me nearly burned my skin whenever he looked at me. And there was – there was an odour. It smelled sweet.” Hermione stopped there as Harry’s eyes widened. _And I feel nothing for the boy I wanted to snog just last week_ , she added silently. _Instead I want to…_ Her cheeks felt hot and tight all of a sudden, and she was certain that she was blushing, but Harry didn’t say anything about that.

“But – Ron wouldn’t hurt you, Hermione,” Harry finally said. “Isn’t he your – your boyfriend?” He seemed to force the word out, and something in his tone made Hermione’s cheeks burn all the hotter.

“Well – well _sort of_ ,” she confessed in a whisper. “We’ve snogged, but I don’t… _Harry_ , since I put on this pendant and Deraga healed me I don’t…I don’t…it’s _not the_ _same!_ ” Her final words were nearly a yell, and echoed throughout the common room. As heads turned and the other sounds in the room quieted, Hermione’s cheeks flushed red as a pair of beets and she said rather feebly, “Sorry, I’m arguing with Harry about S.P.E.W. again.”

There were a few smirks in response to that, but as their fellow Gryffindors turned their attention back to their own pursuits, Harry just stared at Hermione. Finally, he said, “I _really_ don’t think Ron would do something like that, Hermione. But – but if you think he did, we’ll just have to confront him.”

Twelve kilometres from the grounds of Hogwarts, shredded parchment and brown feathers fluttered to the ground together. A small, brown post owl hooted angrily at the raptor that had both attacked it and torn the better part of a sealed envelope from its talons, but being much smaller than the other bird, the owl fled back to Ottery St Catchpole, a third of the letter still grasped within one set of talons. A few letters were still visible on the mangled post:

_asley_

_chool of_

_and Wizardry_

_land_


	23. Interlude: Special Projects

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of this chapter includes a non-graphic description of violence that may be upsetting to some readers.

The owls arrived, one after another, at the end of breakfast. Draco caught first his copy of the _Daily Prophet_ , then the pale envelope that his mother’s owl dropped into his waiting hand. Finally, an owl with the Gringotts crest hanging around its neck dropped an ivory-hued envelope practically on his head before flying away with the rest of the morning post owls.

Tucking the two envelopes into the innermost pocket of his robes, Draco casually picked up his newspaper and looked over the headlines. More muggles had been killed by his Aunt, Bellatrix; the _Daily Prophet_ described the collapse of several muggle manufacturing buildings in Derby and the extent to which obliviators had been required after You-Know-Who’s Death Eaters used a series of explosive curses to blow up the buildings and kill several dozen muggles.

The story that the obliviators and other Ministry of Magic fixers were giving the muggles was that the destruction and death had been caused by a gas leak, unnoticed by anyone in the destroyed brick building until it was too late. The Prophet displayed several images of the building and emphasised that most of the muggles killed had been leaving for work. Children had been found among the dead as well: apparently there had been a small on-site day care for the workers. As Draco stared at one of the black and white moving pictures on the page, the picture shifted to show a series of body bags. Several of them were very small.

Feeling more than a little ill, Draco folded his paper, focusing on looking outwardly calm. His father would have told him that they were just muggles, he reminded himself. _Some of them were children_ , a small voice whispered. _Your aunt is a child-killer._

He rose from the table and, ignoring Goyle’s look, left the Great Hall. His feet took him to an unused, windowless classroom on the second floor, and with a moue of disgust he transfigured a broken desk into a comfortable-looking chair. He checked his watch – he had fifteen minutes. He cast a locking spell on the door. Finally, Draco cast a _lumos_ charm and opened his letters by the light shining from his wand.

_Dear Draco_ , his mother’s letter began.

_I hope that your first two weeks of classes have been successful and that you are working closely with your godfather to maintain your excellent grades in Potions. While I understand that Mr Snape is now teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts, I am certain that he is willing to assist you in achieving an Outstanding in Potions once again this year._

_All is well at the manor, although the peacocks are disturbed by the presence of so many house guests. They are adjusting, however, to the additional noise. I met Lady Greengrass for lunch at this morning and she is well. Her daughter, Daphne, is…_

Draco scanned the rest of the letter with some impatience, until he came to the last paragraph.

_I know you are completing a special project at school this year. As always, my dearest son, I urge you to choose the components of your project wisely. It may be necessary for you to seek guidance from those you would not ordinarily approach._

Her observation regarding his father’s albino peacocks was as close as she would come to complaining about the fact that her sister and any number of other Death Eaters were living in Malfoy Manor. When he’d left for school on the first of September, Bellatrix had already been speaking of the manor as the new headquarters for the Dark Lord and his followers.

Draco surmised that his father was still in Azkaban; for a moment his stomach churned in anger at the fact that Potter had managed to get his father arrested. After taking a deep breath, Draco reminded himself that his father’s actions had put his mother in danger. Worse, it had drawn the Dark Lord’s attention to _him_. “It’s not the smartest thing father ever did,” he muttered.

He read the final lines of his mother’s letter a second time. He knew that she was, rather obliquely, referring to the task set to him by the Dark Lord’s followers. After a moment, Draco unfastened the cuffs and pulled up the left sleeve of his crisp, white uniform shirt. Pale, unblemished skin met his eyes before he closed them, taking a deep breath as he did so. It had taken quick thinking and no small amount of verbal fencing on his mother’s part to ensure that he stayed free of the Dark Mark.

He needed to speak with Professor Snape as soon as possible. Then Draco shook his head. _Snape is marked._ For a moment, Granger’s name drifted into his mind. He dismissed that possibility as well: she would never help someone who had called her a mudblood and whose father had almost gotten her killed by a basilisk. 

Opening his eyes after another deep breath, Draco turned his attention to the letter from Gringotts.

_Mr Draco Malfoy  
_ _Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  
_ _Scotland_

_Mr Malfoy:_

_Per the Goblin Treaty of 1755, Gringotts Bank is required to inform you that Lady Narcissa Malfoy attempted to gain access to Vault 230, which as you know is held in trust for you by Gringotts. Per Gringotts policy, Lady Malfoy was denied access to Vault 230 and the trustee, Lord Harry James Potter-Black, has been notified of the attempt to gain access to this vault._

_As a reminder, individuals other than the beneficiary of a trust vault are not permitted access without permission from the trustee, the beneficiary, and the bank. On behalf of Gringotts, I encourage you to remind Lady Malfoy of this policy._

_Faanghark  
_ _Assistant Manager of Trusts and Estates_  
_Gringotts Bank  
_ _Diagon Alley, London_

Draco’s hand tightened around the parchment until the paper crinkled and nearly tore. What was his mother doing? Why hadn’t she said anything about trying to get into his vault in her letter? Had she been forced to try and get into the vault by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? By Aunt Bellatrix?

_Lord Harry James Potter-Black has been notified of the attempt to gain access to this vault_. Draco’s lips tightened. Potter would know what his mother had tried to do. He wondered what the Gryffindor would make of it, and resolved not to care.

He glanced down at the watch around his left wrist. He only had five minutes to get to his next class. Draco rolled his sleeve back down and re-fastened the onyx cufflink that held the starched fabric shut. Tapping his wand against first one letter and then the other, he burned them both to ashes – envelopes included – and vanished the ash remnants. He cast a _finite_ at the chair, turning it back into the broken desk, before leaving the classroom and walking to his first class of the day in as unhurried a manner as he could manage.


	24. Birthdays and Horned Rampion

A full week had passed, and Harry still hadn’t gotten a chance to speak with Ron and Hermione alone. Though they still took Herbology and Defence Against the Dark Arts together, Hermione’s enrolment in NEWT-level Arithmancy and Ancient Runes meant that she often rushed off at the exact moment that their shared classes ended.

Despite his irritation at being unable to address Hermione’s concerns about Ron right away, Harry was quietly thrilled at the fact that his best friend could _rush_ somewhere at all; as both Madam Pomfrey and the goblin healer Deraga had promised, the colour had returned to Hermione’s cheeks and she breathed more easily. 

The morning of 19 September dawned warm and sunny, and Harry prepared for Thursday classes earlier than usual. His alarm clock read “You could sleep another 15 minutes,” but he was already showered and dressed in his school uniform. He packed his rucksack – the one Hermione had given him – with his book for Herbology, which was a double class on Thursdays, and with his Defence book. He and Ron both had a free period after Herbology, and Harry was still catching up on the reading and homework for the other class after having missed it the previous week. He hoped that Professor McGonagall had spoken with Snape about that, but expected that the greasy-haired git would take points or otherwise punish them just the same.

After a moment of thought, Harry added the necklace for Ron to his bag; hopefully he would have a few minutes to give it to his friend. If the other boy didn’t do what Hermione feared, Harry wanted his best friend protected – at least as much as he could be.

The other four sixth-year boys in his dorm room were still rousing themselves when Hedwig startled Seamus quite badly by tapping on the window rather insistently. The Irish boy gave a brief shout and his wand jerked in his hand, sending out a spell that set one of Neville’s bed curtains on fire. Neville leapt from his bed with a shout of his own and grabbed for his wand, but Dean was faster. The boy cast an _aguamenti_ spell that sprayed both the fire and Neville with cold water, leaving the hapless Gryffindor sputtering while Harry suppressed a grin and opened the window to let Hedwig in. He pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose as Hedwig hovered in the large, open window frame.

The snowy owl dropped a small package into Harry’s hands before she landed, and Harry dug a few owl treats out of his rucksack for her. Hedwig accepted them with a soft hoot and a nip of his fingers before she launched herself from the windowsill. Harry closed the window once more and then tapped the package with his wand to bring it back to a normal size. Relieved of its shrinking spell, the package was the size of a large book. Harry placed it on his bed – carefully angling himself to shield the package from any additional _aguamenti_ charms – and removed the brown paper wrapping.

“What’s that?” Ron asked from Harry’s left side. The last of his dormmates was awake, barely, and his hair stuck up at all angles. Harry suppressed a smirk as he returned his attention to the thick book before him.

“It’s Hermione’s birthday present,” he said. He quickly returned the book to its wrapping before Ron could get a close look at it. “It’s a book, of course. Why don’t you get dressed and we can give our presents to her together, before breakfast?” Harry suggested.

Ron scrubbed a hand through his hair, making it even messier, but nodded. Harry left the dorm, then, taking his rucksack and Hermione’s present with him. Hermione wasn’t in the common room when he reached the bottom of the staircase from the boys’ dorms, but breakfast wasn’t due to start for another quarter-hour. Harry settled on the sofa nearest the fireplace and waited for either Hermione or Ron to make an appearance.

It was Ron who arrived first, to Harry’s surprise – Hermione was usually prompt in the mornings. Having cleaned himself up, Ron looked a lot less like he was wearing a puffskein on his head than he did a few minutes ago. There was a wrapped box in his hands, the red paper shining in the light from the windows, and Harry eyed it. It was too large to be jewellery, _not that Ron could afford to give Hermione jewellery_ , he thought, and instantly berated himself. _That’s not his fault. You know most sixth years wouldn’t be able to give their girlfriend jewellery. And anyway, you only have this gift because it was in one of the vaults._

Ron sat down beside him on the sofa and glanced at the package on Harry’s lap, but all he said was, “Seamus managed to set Dean’s bed curtains on fire too.” At Harry’s poorly-stifled snort of laughter, his brow furrowed. “What’s so funny about that?”

When Hermione walked down the girls’ staircase a few minutes later, Harry’s heart stuttered just a little. She was just wearing her school uniform and robes, and her hair was only barely-tamed, but the smile she offered as she approached the sofa lit up her face and brought a sparkle to her eyes. “Happy birthday, Hermione,” he said, and Ron echoed his words.

The ginger-haired boy offered his present first, and Hermione took the red-wrapped package with a smile that, Harry thought, didn’t quite reach her eyes. Down by his feet he heard a sudden _brrt_ of greeting, and that was all the warning he received before Crookshanks leapt up into his lap, dislodging Hermione’s gift, and butted his head against Harry’s hands in an obvious demand for affection. Harry scratched the enormous cat’s chin obligingly, then moved his hand between his ears as the half-kneazle began to purr.

Ron tentatively reached out to pet Crookshanks’ back, but the cat growled quietly, and Hermione admonished, “You know he doesn’t like having his back touched.”

Harry refrained from telling Hermione that Crookshanks didn’t seem to mind when either he or Hermione touched Crookshanks anywhere but his paws (and even Hermione was able to get away with that on occasion). “Why don’t you open your present?” he said instead, before letting out an involuntary “ _Hff,_ ” when Crookshanks stood, circled his lap, and shoved his bottlebrush tail in Harry’s face before curling up as if he was ready to take a nap. “We have to go to breakfast, you know,” he told the cat, who just continued his loud purring.

Hermione looked down at the present in her hands once again and perched on the armchair next to the sofa, allowing her own bag to slip off of her arm and land beside her feet. She peeled apart the seams of the shiny red paper to reveal a white paper box; it looked like the kind that came from Honeydukes. Indeed, there was gold writing on the box that proclaimed Honeydukes to be the “Purveyor of the Finest Chocolates and Assorted Sweets, Est. 1641” and a flat gold ribbon held the box shut. Harry wondered, idly, when Ron had gone to the sweets shop: Hogsmeade visits weren’t slated to begin for several more weeks. _Maybe he sent Pig with an order_.

While Harry was pondering, Hermione had apparently opened the box. “Oh, deluxe sugar quills. Thank you, Ron!” Her voice was enthusiastic enough – Harry knew that she really _did_ like sugar quills – but he privately thought it was an odd gift from a _boyfriend_. His heart ached at the term. Turning his head, he saw that the box held five quills; it was a bit stingy for a seventeenth birthday present, he thought, and just as quickly tried to quash the thought. _Still…five sugar quills cost less than two galleons…_

“Here, Hermione. There’s one from me as well,” Harry said, and quickly handed over his present for her without dislodging the half-kneazle still on his lap. Crookshanks was kneading one of his thighs, and Harry winced as a claw grazed his skin through his trousers.

Hermione closed the box of quills and slipped them into her bag before taking the package that Harry offered. She flashed a smile at him before turning her attention to the plain brown wrapping paper. Her fingers worked quickly to remove it from the book, but as Harry watched, Hermione just stared at it.

“Alright, Hermione?” Ron finally asked, as the silence stretched out a little too long.

When Hermione looked up at them both, there were tears in her eyes. “ _Harry_ , this is…this is far too much. Where did you even _find_ this?”

The book on Hermione’s lap was a little larger than a standard textbook and covered in black leather. Filigree-style engravings spilled over the front cover, and in the centre of the cover, the book’s title was engraved into the leather and filled in with silver paint to make the letters stand out. The letters spelled _Euterpe Fawley’s Arithmantic Guide to Spellcrafting_.

“It’s from the Potter vaults,” Harry explained. He rubbed the back of his neck and his cheeks burned a little. He knew he must be flushing. “I thought, since you’re still taking arithmancy, that it might help your work. Archin said it would be a good choice.”

The look on Hermione’s face was near-priceless. “A good choice?” she repeated. “Harry…this is one of the best books on spellcrafting ever written. And it’s…very expensive. Professor Vector has a copy that she allows us to reference during class, but even the library doesn’t have any of Euterpe Fawley’s works because there are so few copies available in the general public.” Her hands fluttered over the book before she stilled them in favour of gripping one hand around the spine and sliding the tome into her bag. “Thank you, Harry,” she said quietly, and if her eyes were shining a bit too brightly, Harry tried not to notice because Ron was sitting right next to them.

Ron was sitting right next to them, and he looked none too thrilled with Hermione’s reaction to his gift. Harry thought to grab for the necklace in his bag and give it to Ron right then and there, if only to distract his friend. Instead, he pulled back from his bag as a group of first year girls came running down the stairs in a flurry of robes and long hair, interrupting his train of thought with their excited chattering. Gryffindors from the other years came streaming down the stairs as well. Ron announced that they should go eat, and Harry and Hermione were both forced to agree.

In the rush down to breakfast, Harry quite forgot all about Ron’s irritation, and on the fast-paced walk across the grounds to the greenhouses for Herbology, he forgot about the necklace as well. Professor Sprout gave Hermione a concerned look as the trio entered Greenhouse Four, but she said nothing until the twenty-four students were all assembled.

“This morning we will be studying and harvesting flowers from the _horned rampion_ ,” the professor announced. Her long, rosy-brown linen robes were already smudged with dirt and purple shrivelfig juice. The fabric was creased in various places. “You will work in pairs to catalogue the properties of the rampion, and then you will harvest the flowers.”

Harry turned to look at Hermione, but Ron had already started to pull her away. “Pairs, then?” Neville asked from his other side, and Harry dredged up a smile for his fellow Gryffindor. At the very least, his skill with plants would guarantee them both an O on the assignment.

Suddenly, the image of Neville’s body twisting in agony under the power of Bellatrix Lestrange’s cruciatus curse filled his mind. For a brief moment, Harry was back in the Department of Mysteries, with Hermione unconscious and possibly dying, Ron the victim of an attack by brains, and Neville screaming over the cackles of the insane, dark-haired witch who had destroyed his parents’ minds.

With a gasp, Harry shook himself to dismiss the memory. At Neville’s concerned look, he smiled more fully at the other boy. “Yes, partners,” he said quietly, and at Sprout’s instruction, Neville retrieved one of the twelve plants from the other side of the greenhouse. When he returned a few minutes later, Harry could see that the plant was moving. The blue-green leaves at the base of the plant flapped aimlessly as the entire plant, roots and all, squirmed restlessly within the confines of its pot. Bulbous purple flowers rose out of the leaves. Each one narrowed to a spike, and several of the spikes were beginning to split apart and curl back against the outside of the petals.

Neville placed the plant on the wooden table before them and pulled a pair of dragonhide gloves from his bag. Harry did the same; Professor Sprout hadn’t given that instruction yet, but he suspected that Neville knew what to do. He took several sheets of parchment and a quill from his bag as well, for the cataloguing.

“Very good, yes, very good,” Professor Sprout said as the last student, Terry Boot, returned with the plant he and Ernie MacMillan would be sharing. “Now then, you will see that the rampion is named the _horned_ rampion due to the shape of its flowers. After you have completed your cataloguing, you will harvest _only_ the flowers that have begun to split. Professor Slughorn is in need of the rampion stamen, as well as the petals, for the Seventh Years, who will be making Blood-Replenishing Potions next week.

“Don’t touch that, Weasley!” The admonishment came as Ron reached out to touch one of the flowers with his bare hands. Harry could see that the plant had begun to wave its spiky flowers ominously. “You will need your dragonhide gloves for harvesting, as the leaves cause a terrible rash when touched. The flowers have been known to shoot their stamen when the petals are not yet split; the stamen are able to burrow beneath the skin, which I assure you is very painful.”

As if she hadn’t just told her class that they were working with a potentially harmful plant, Professor Sprout smiled and gave a brief nod of her head. “We only have an hour and a quarter this morning, so you had best get started.”

Harry pulled on his gloves even though he and Neville weren’t yet ready to harvest; it was difficult to handle a quill while using them, but he didn’t want to take any chances. The greenhouse soon filled with the sound of books being opened and students murmuring to one another about the plant.

Neville paged quickly through _A Practical Guide to Impractical Plants_ by Hadrian Whittle, which Harry had watched him take out of his bag along with their textbook, _Herbology for the Seasoned Witch or Wizard_. He left the first book open to a page on the rampion. “Well,” he began, “We’d better start, like Professor Sprout said. This one has a lot of flowers and it’ll take time to pluck the ones we need.”

The two boys spent the next half hour quietly writing down each characteristic of the strange, spiky plant. Neville sketched a passable drawing with his quill, and labelled each part of said drawing with a letter tied to the written description. Harry, whose attempt to draw the rampion looked more like a house-elf with spiked hair, followed his lead.

With little discussion, each of the twelve pairs gradually turned to harvesting the petals and stamen from the rampion. Harry followed Neville’s calm, confident instructions as he checked over each flower for signs that the petals were splitting open. The plant’s squirming gradually lessened as they plucked each flower, until half of the flowers had been plucked and laid out on clean sheets of brown butcher paper. Harry watched the plant nervously, but it was entirely still.

“They squirm because the over-ripe flowers make them uncomfortable,” Neville explained. “Professor Slughorn needs the petals split and the stamens extracted – if you extract the stamens I’ll do the splitting.”

Harry nodded his assent silently, and carefully peeled open each flower to reveal the bulbous blue stamen hidden within the purple petals. He detached each stamen and dropped it into the glass jar that Professor Sprout had left at each table. The other students were starting to do the same thing. Harry found his task oddly soothing, and soon he fell into a kind of meditative state. Almost before he knew it, he was down to the last flower. Neville was working quietly next to him, cutting each of the flowers into four parts.

The relative peace and quiet of the greenhouse shattered as Ron let out a pained yell, and Harry crushed a flower in his fingers as the noise broke his concentration. An unpleasant odour arose from his hand. Only a few paces away, Ron shouted again, and Harry realized quickly that he must have done something to the plant: his arms, which were bare because he’d rolled up his sleeves despite Sprout’s warning, were being attacked by several of the rampion’s stamens, and his best friend was already bloodied where they had started to succeed in burrowing beneath his skin.

“ _Arresto momentum! Depulso!_ ” Hermione’s voice, calm and sure, slowed the plant’s attack and then sent not only the stamens but the entire rampion plant flying away from Ron. She lowered her wand almost immediately, but the clay pot shattered a glass pane in the east wall of the greenhouse and kept going, the stamens following it. Harry’s mouth dropped open; it looked like the pot might have reached Hagrid’s cottage.

“Miss Granger!” Professor Sprout’s voice rang out as she bustled over to both Hermione and Ron. The latter was cradling one arm, where small holes in his skin oozed blood. “Five points to Gryffindor for quick thinking, but did you _really_ have to banish my rampion as well?”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed bright red, but before she could say anything, Sprout moved on to Ron. “Mr Weasley, you’ll need to go to the hospital wing straight away. Be sure to tell Madam Pomfrey that you were attacked by a horned rampion. Can you get there on your own?” As she spoke, the witch conjured white bandages that wrapped themselves around Ron’s injured forearms.

Ron nodded, although his freckles stood out against his pale skin and he looked a bit wild-eyed. Professor Sprout narrowed her eyes. “Mr Longbottom, please accompany Mr Weasley to the hospital wing. Your knowledge of the horned rampion is, of course, excellent and you will receive full marks for this class.”

Neville gave Harry a short nod before he left their table to guide Ron out of the greenhouse and back up to the castle. Harry gave Ron a pat on the shoulder as he passed by, although the other boy seemed more invested in glancing back at Hermione repeatedly.

When the class ended, and Harry had returned the plant to the far side of the greenhouse, he walked beside Hermione across the grounds and back to the school’s side entrance. “What happened?” he finally asked.

Hermione looked up at him after a moment. “Ron accidentally harvested two of the flowers that weren’t open yet,” she said. “The plant attacked him.”

“I meant what happened when you cast the _depulso_ ,” Harry corrected. He kept his tone gentle, but Hermione’s cheeks flushed pink.

“Oh…that.” Despite the warmth of the mid-September sun shining down, Hermione shivered and shifted closer to Harry.

He wrapped an arm around her shoulder companionably for a moment, but let his arm drop as he thought of Ron, who was probably still in the hospital wing. _They’re still together_ , he reminded himself, and tried not to read too much into the look on Hermione’s face.

“I think it’s because of what Deraga did.” Hermione’s voice had lowered to a whisper that Harry strained to hear; casually looking around, he saw that Malfoy and Nott were nearby, as were a couple of sixth-year Ravenclaws.

Harry scrubbed a hand through his hair before he nodded in understanding. “So, your magic is stronger now, then?”

“Maybe. Madam Pomfrey cleared me to practice magic again last night. I’m not sure if I’m stronger or if it’s just that I haven’t cast a spell in a full week.” They reached the doors back into the castle, and Harry held one open for Hermione to pass through ahead of him. “Thank you – I’d better get to Ancient Runes,” Hermione announced in a more normal tone of voice. “I’ll see you at lunch?” she asked.

“Of course. I’ll be in the library until then.” At her look of mild surprise, Harry just grinned.


End file.
